


Hide and ... Think

by Ebm36



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Original Character(s), Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-08-23 04:19:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebm36/pseuds/Ebm36
Summary: Here is a story which will probably be my last fanfiction. It took me several months to finish it and I have used all my ideas of missing scenes. I promised to DebbieF that I would write something about d'Artagnan but, of course, the other three are very important and the events are seen through the eyes of everyone (including Constance and Sylvie).It's a missing scene at the end of ep 9 s3. Tréville has just been killed, d'Artagnan has been hurt by Grimaud and his men. The Musketeers are shocked and exhausted.I tried to understand how our favourite Musketeers could be so efficient, lucid, calm after being beaten, stabbed, concussed and after loosing their former captain. Sorry if I hurt them too much in this story. I tried not to include too many medical acts for fear of inaccuracy and because I suspect it can be boring for some people  ... I hope the whole thing is realistic enough.I apologise in advance for the contemplative side of this story. It's my weakness. LOLA huge thank you to my proofreader, for her advice and encouragements and for helping me to improve my English.♥♥♥





	1. Just Tired

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DebbieF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebbieF/gifts), [Hsg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hsg/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tréville just died. D'artagnan, Athos and Aramis have to bring his body to Le Louvre... but things are always complicated with the _Inséparables._

**_D’Artagnan_ **

 

         The setting sun lit the scene with a golden glow which could have been cheerful given the season and its promise of a warm evening lulled by the dialogue of a couple of nightingales, bathed in the perfume of the freshly-cut hay and the young flowers of a big lime tree. Its old branches gave a welcome shadow during the hot hours of the day and protected from the evening cool breeze. For him, however, the golden light looked like the eerie glow of a wake. Swaying slightly in his saddle, d’Artagnan tried to straighten. They hadn't even departed yet but the whole world seemed to move and swirl. He tried to arch his back, to suppress the unbearable sensation of a sticky sweat soaking his shirt. The still too hot sun hitting the black leather of his uniform increased the uncomfortable feeling.

 

 “Is everything alright?”

         

        Someone was talking to him and had probably repeated this question because the tone was worried and impatient.

 

“Yes. Fine.” He mumbled, his tongue feeling swollen in his dry mouth.

 “Obviously.” Aramis replied and his low voice could have been mistaken for Athos’.

 

         D’Artagnan tried to concentrate on his surroundings rather than on his own misery. The trees, the sparse grass, the darkening blue sky above their heads. He closed his eyes firmly. It was a bad dream. Probably caused by the fever due to his exhaustion, the nasty blow he had received on the back of the head, or a wound. A hand gripping his forearm and a leg brushing his, coupled with a shudder running through his horse’s flanks made him open his eyes again. He hadn’t noticed Aramis approaching him and closing the gap between their stallions. The two beasts were as used to working and moving together as their riders were, but d’Artagnan’s young Friesian was as jumpy and hotheaded as the young man.

 

“Are you ready?”

         

         D’Artagnan nodded, breathed in deeply and, gripping the reins tightly, forced himself to look down at the wagon he would have to follow during their short journey back to Paris. The royal flag covered Tréville’s body but the unmistakable darkening stain soaking it made real what d’Artagnan had tried to deny or forget. He closed his eyes when his vision blurred and swallowed his saliva which felt as thick as the sweat that his body seemed to produce in an unusual amount. He almost recoiled when he opened his eyes again and met the concerned look of a pair of grey green irises whose pupils were reduced to the size of a pin head in the blinding horizontal last rays of the sun.

 

 “What is it?” Athos asked Aramis, ignoring, probably rightly, d’Artagnan’s presence.

 

          Aramis shrugged and they exchanged a silent conversation. At last, Athos nodded and guided his horse towards the head of their small procession consisting of a wagon driven by the farmer who had lent it, three grieving musketeers, a skinny dog and a no less skinny filthy child who had decided that the whole thing could be interesting.

 

 “ _Oh, P’tit **[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/38936213#chapter_1_endnotes)**_ Louison, go back to your mother and take your mangy rat with you.” The farmer yelled at his son.

 “Please, I want to…”

 “You want nothing. _Ouste_ ** _[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/38936213#chapter_1_endnotes) _**!”

 

          At last, they departed, but it wasn’t a relief as he found it more and more difficult to stay in his saddle. His horse made a few nervous jumps sideways when he felt its master squeeze his calves against its flanks in an unusual way. The young man had to keep going, for their dead  former Captain, for his friends, for himself. He looked at Athos’ figure, ahead of the wagon. He noticed how stiff his back looked, how his horse seemed to feel its rider’s grief and anxiety. He flinched when the band of iron circling a wheel of the wagon produced a few sparks as it hit a stone. They were definitely riding too fast for his own liking. For two reasons : he was dizzy in a way he had rarely experienced even after receiving a whole barn on the head and the bumps of the road made Tréville’s body jump under the royal banner in an incongruous and sickening manner.  

         D’Artagnan felt the intense stare of Aramis beside him. He didn’t need to look at him to know that any minute, a question would come about his state of health. He tried to put on a brave face and straightened his back again, but a sharp pain flared through his whole body.

           He heard Aramis cough slightly and ignored it. The buzzing in his head worsened suddenly. He tried to figure out where it came from. Through the fog in which his head was wrapped, he saw Athos come towards him, exchange a few words with Aramis who took his place at the head of the convoy. The Captain rode silently beside his young brother.

         The droning wouldn’t stop. Blinking, d’Artagnan understood where the noise came from. Two big bluish flies were drawing irritating spirals above the body. It was suddenly too much for him. Sliding heavily from his horse without bothering to stop it, he rushed towards the side of the path where he fell on his knees, clutching at his stomach with one hand while the other came to his mouth. He hiccuped helplessly for a few seconds, the spasms bringing tears which leaked between his tightly closed eyelids.

 

 “Hey, what is it?” Athos whispered in his ear, his tone worried and sad.

 

         D’Artagnan hadn’t even heard him dismount and approach him. He couldn’t answer, too busy trying not to make a fool of himself. He shook his head but the world spun and his willpower was suddenly not strong enough to keep his stomach from ridding itself of what little he had eaten since the morning. One of Athos’ hands on his head and the other gripping his biceps was the only things keeping him from collapsing on his side. He felt his Captain’s long slender fingers run through his hair as if trying to find something.

 

 “I’m not surprised.” Athos murmured. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

          He had found it, then, and honestly, d’Artagnan couldn’t have told him because he had forgotten the strong blow he had received from Grimaud’s henchmen.The silence told him that the wagon had stopped. A pair of dusty boots appeared in his field of vision, then a wet handkerchief followed by a waterskin.

 

 “Will you tell us now?” Aramis asked.

 “I’m fine.” D’Artagnan managed to articulate.

 “I’ll go ahead and warn the Palace of our arrival. In the meantime, take your time. No need to hurt yourself further.” Athos said, his voice forbidding any objection.

 “I can ma …”

 “No, you can’t.” Athos asserted, standing up and leaving his young friend to the care of Aramis.

 

    D’Artagnan immediately missed the warmth of Athos’ hands even if Aramis had already taken his Captain’s place -Athos had probably explained the situation with his famous silent language made of frowns and raised eyebrows-. Aramis knelt next to the young man and moved his hand up and down his arm. D’Artagnan cursed himself for being so weak. Surely his friends had more right than he had to mourn the loss of their former Captain but they looked so strong. Athos hadn’t even shed a tear, his face barely showing his sorrow. Only the lines around his eyes seemed deeper and his complexion even more pale than usual. Drinking gratefully from the waterskin, d’Artagnan was able to stand up without help, to put his foot in the stirrup merely stifling a whimper. Once in the saddle, he squeezed his legs a little too strongly. The beast pulled on the reins with a strength and an abruptness that threatened to throw the Musketeer over its head. Aramis seized the bridle very close to the bit to calm the horse and let the young man recover his balance.

 

“Any information about your health you would share with me now?”

 “I’m fine.” D'Artagnan mumbled glaring at his friend. “I’m just … tired … and …” He stopped, not trusting his voice or his eyes.

 

         Aramis reached out to squeeze his forearm, nodding understandingly, but he was still unconvinced.

 

“I will take the lead. Can you stay at the back on your own? Just call if … ”

 

        The dark feverish glare he received was enough to stop any further interrogation.

 

**oooo0000O0000oooo**

 

**_Athos_ **

 

         Of course, he needed to prepare for their arrival, of course, it was his role as the Captain. Of course, it was necessary… and of course, he was a hypocrite. The truth was that he needed to escape.  It was selfish, he knew it. He tried to forget the faces and looks which were printed behind his eyelids. The dying blue eyes, looking at the sky in their last instants and the dark sorrowful eyes looking at him with such despair, silently begging him to stay. He pressed his left leg against his horse’s flanks urging the animal to gallop. He needed the feeling of the big stallion’s muscles rolling underneath him, he needed the warm wind in his eyes, blurring his vision. His horse’s harsh breathing in rhythm with their gallop lulled his mind. He ignored the drops of foam that the wind brought to his face as the big beast nervously chewed at the bit. He ignored everything until he reached the first walls of the city. Pulling on the reins and straightening in his saddle, he slowed down and righted his uniform and hat.   

         When he saw the massive walls of _Le Louvre,_ casting a dark menacing shadow over the streets as the last rays of sun made the building look like a huge copper treasure chest, he felt his heart miss a beat. He didn’t know what he would find there, how he would announce Tréville’s death to the Queen, to … to Porthos. He shook his head angrily, as if trying to empty it of everything. He dismounted, grimacing as his sore muscles reminded him of the ordeals of the past days and hours, deciding that continuing on foot would help him to calm down and prepare his speech. He felt his lips twitch in a bitter half smile. He knew perfectly well that all the words he always managed to put in order in his mind and all the sentences he took time to mentally repeat would refuse to leave his mouth when he needed them most, only to be ready again hours later when he needed them no more. He had made an art of a form of silent language his friends had learnt to understand but his position as the Captain had forced him to translate it into sounds and real words.

         Walking slowly along the Seine, he reached the large gates of the new _Cour_ where he let a stable boy take care of his horse. Then he headed towards the royal apartments. He was relieved when he was told to meet the Queen in the small gardens at the back of the new wing Louis had ordered a few years before and where a few workers were drinking in the shadows of the evening after their long tiring day. He would at least avoid the stifling air of the large over furnished rooms, their painted ceilings heavy with too much gold making him unable to breathe properly.

         The small garden was agreable in the evening air. The high walls bringing a refreshing shadow after the so hot hours of this day. He leant for a moment against the cool stone of the archway, hidden behind the pillar, to compose himself and watch the scene before him. The Queen sat on a low bench, smiling fondly at her son who was running and giggling between the flower beds bordered by low hedges of boxtree. The boy in this instant was just a boy, not a king, not a former fugitive. The tableau could have been perfect and cheerful but Athos noticed how the Queen had her hands crossed on her lap, her fingers twisting nervously between her knees, crumpling the silk of her dress. In the background, he noticed two shadows walking slowly arm in arm. Sylvie and Constance. He took a deep breath. He needed to reassure them, so he needed to show himself.

         A movement behind him made him turn around abruptly, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

 

“Athos? Where … The others? What happened?”

 

         Porthos had gripped his elbow, recognising in his friend’s features all the signs he knew how to read. Athos opened his mouth and closed it tightly.

 

“Athos? What happened?” Porthos murmured as Athos had averted his gaze to turn towards the garden.

 “They are coming … With … I came ahead to …”

 

 _God_ , again, his words deserted him. He turned towards Porthos, his eyes trying to say what he couldn’t, his eyebrows drawn together, a deep crease in the middle of his forehead. Porthos’ grip changed to something more comforting as the big man sensed how upset his friend was. Athos felt his thumb brushing his arm gently to urge him to speak.

 

“After you left … with … the King … the fight …”

 

         Porthos let go of his arm and brought a hand to his mouth fearing the worst.

 

“Aramis?” He murmured, behind his gloved hand.

 

         In any other situation, Athos would have smiled fondly at Porthos’ reaction. Aramis was still the first in his mind, in his heart, even after all their disagreement, after the years which had broken their friendship. This friendship of which so many pieces were still missing, hidden behind the shadow of unforgiven things, of unsaid words.

 

“Aramis and d’Artagnan are … fine. At least … they say so. They are coming but …”

 “The …    Tréville ...?” Porthos said slowly, his eyes suddenly veiled.

 

         Athos nodded sadly feeling his throat constricting, his eyes fleeting towards the little boy running on the grass.

 

“How?”

 

         Athos bowed his head, Porthos’ question reminding him too well that he hadn’t managed to stop the monster before his new murder.

 

“Athos? How?” Porthos repeated his voice wobbling with grief and anger as he seized Athos’ collar with his big hands. “Look at me, Athos? Who? How? When I left, he was just … just… He was still ...”

 “Grimaud. He shot him. We … _I_ was … too late.” Athos whispered barely audible.

 

         Porthos let go of Athos’ uniform as if afraid of his own brutal reaction, as if afraid of hurting the already broken man. For a few seconds, he kept his hands open above Athos’ shoulders, his eyes empty, his breathing too fast...

 

“Porthos?” Athos softly called, frowning.

 

         A ragged breath answered him and suddenly he found himself engulfed in Porthos’ embrace, the man’s fingers digging in his shoulders and back. Athos had stumbled backwards under the weight of his friend, spreading his arms in his surprise, but he slowly closed them around the large shaking back, clumsily trying to comfort his brother and secretly wishing he could allow his own grief to be washed in such a childish flow of tears. But he couldn’t, his eyes were dry, he couldn’t even close them for the only things he saw were Tréville’s dying clear blue irises, and the growing pool of blood in the dirt.

 

“‘m sorry Athos, sorry, sorry …” Porthos mumbled in his hair.

 

 _Sorry? I am the one who should be sorry,_ Athos thought, but once more the words evaded him and he just tightened his embrace. They didn’t hear the gravel screeching under three pairs of shoes but the muffled “ _No, please, no_!” made them pull apart. Athos turned towards the three women and raised his hands when he saw Constance, with her fingers over her mouth and her eyes wide with fear, Sylvie’s arm around her waist. The Queen, her eyes shining with unshed tears, had a hand under Constance’s elbow. Only her rank made her try no to give way to her anxiety.

 

“No, Constance, he is … no, d’Artagnan…He is fine.” Athos said in a hurry, stumbling over the words. Suddenly, he froze and, bowing towards the Queen, he added more calmly not sure if what he was about to say was allowed by the etiquette . “Your majesty…  Aramis is well… but … ”

 

         A sigh escaped the women’s mouths.

 

“Minister Tréville ... “ He began before taking a deep breath.

 “Minister Tréville has been killed.” Porthos helped, his hand squeezing Athos’ shoulder.

 “Aramis and d’Artagnan are on their way with his …” Athos continued.

 

         The Queen laid a  fine white hand on his forearm and nodded calmly, her eyes shone, her lower lip trembled slightly but she remained a Queen in everything. The grieving woman hidden behind the mask of the monarch.

 

“Captain, can we talk elsewhere? Constance, please, take the King to his appartements, my son trusts you. Mademoiselle Bodin, please, stay …”

“Thank you, your majesty.” Sylvie whispered shyly with a clumsy curtsy, as the young king slipped his little hand in hers, looking up at her with his big clear eyes, trying to understand what was happening.

 “I will wait for them here.” Porthos said crossing his arms over his chest in a I-will-stay-here-as-long-as-necessary stance.

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P'tit = petit = little  
> Ouste = shoo


	2. An Important Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, the next one will be longer.  
> I apologise to Athos' fans for his absence, but he will come back in three days ;-)
> 
> Thank you for your kind reviews and ♥
> 
> ♥♥♥

**_Aramis_ **

 

     Was everything real? Could it be even possible? He ignored the form lying underneath the royal banner. Could this bleeding body be that of of their beloved former Captain, their father in many ways if not in blood? He reached for his rosary, always waiting for him in a pocket, and clutched at it for a moment but he had to let it go because, suddenly, he couldn’t see the path, or the first walls of Paris, through the tears welling up again in his eyes. With no witness, he let himself grieve, his fingers running through his mare’s mane. The wagon was slow and regularly bumped on the uneven ground, the old _percheron_ harnessed to it, with its curved back and visible ribs had difficulty with its present task. The farmer had his head low and seemed to slumber, his face hidden under the large rim of his brown hat.

    Aramis risked a glance at his young friend but d’Artagnan sat straight in his saddle. He was pale and his eyes were shadowed but it could be the shock. He had noticed nothing wrong when the young man had jumped from his horse. He had avoided Aramis’ inquisitive hand when he had tried to find a hint of fever on his brow. The metallic smell of blood had even reached his nostrils but it could have come from the body in the wagon, not from the young man. Something was wrong. He knew it, but something was wrong with everything and everyone.

 

“Sir, Paris.”

 

    The farmer was a man of few words but Aramis knew another one like this man and he didn’t need more. He slowly raised his head and saw the cathedral emerge from the evening mist, the thin spire of the _Sainte-Chapelle,_ the massive shape of _Le Châtelet_ … A sigh of relief escaped his lips. Paris was always a reassuring sight for him.

 

“Sir, your youngest, he is not well.”

“I know.”

“He is wounded.”

“I suppose so.”

“You did nothing.”

 

    The tone -almost accusatory- surprised Aramis and he felt a wave of guilt hit him like a physical blow.

 

“I …” He began before drawing in a shuddering breath.

 

    He turned towards d’Artagnan. His vision was still blurred and he saw him through a fog of tears and sweat. The young man was still in his saddle obviously trying to hide his pain.

 

“I will check him when we arrive.”

 

    At least his son was safe with Porthos. Safe? How could he be so certain? If … ? He reached again for his rosary and looked down at his trembling hand. His glove was still covered in blood and he suddenly understood his young friend’s reaction. Last time he had had Tréville’s blood on his hands he had managed to save him. This time he hadn’t been able to use his skills. He had known it as soon as he had seen where the bullet had entered the flesh. Death had already glazed the man’s eyes. Once more he had been too late. He was always too late. To save Isabelle, to save Marguerite, to save Adèle, to save Tréville, even to save his son. He knew it was a silly thought. Porthos was already there to bring the little boy back to Paris when he and Athos had arrived. He selfishly hoped that Athos had already been able to announce the news to Porthos. His relationship with the big man was still awkward, their conversations were laced with unnecessary politeness and restraint. Their words carefully chosen in order to avoid hurting the other and being hurt. Four years ago an arm around shoulders, a gentle slap on the back and in extreme cases a warm embrace, had solved every problem, every misunderstanding but now…

 

“Sir. D’you think, me and my old _Pompon_ will be allowed there ?”

 

    Aramis was startled at the words. The hushed raspy voice of the farmer forced him out of his train of thought. He turned towards him, his neck cracking like the wheels of the wagon.

 

“Of, course. You will be rewarded, don’t worry.”

“Not doing it for a reward.”

“I know but …”

“Farmers too have honor you know.” The man grumbled, lifting his whip to wake up his old mount.

 

    Aramis found no answer and turned his tired eyes again towards Paris.

 

**oooo0000O0000oooo**

 

**_D’Artagnan_ **

 

     He let the slow walk of his horse numb his mind and his body, his eyes fixed on the  trembling blue feather of Aramis’ hat until they hurt. Suddenly a scratching sound followed by the _tap tap_ of a pair of running small feet made him look down at the wagon just in time to see _P'tit Louison_ jump onto it to retrieve his dog. The scruffy beast had decided to know what was hidden underneath the banner.D’Artagnan brought a hand to his mouth as a flow of bile burnt his throat.

 

“Wha…” He exclaimed.

 

     The boy, his writhing puppy clutched against his chest looked up at him with a pair of huge clear blue-green eyes whose light stood out on the grime covering his face.

 

“Please sir…” He whispered, walking besides the horse, his small feet, barely protected by a pair of worn sandals, trying to keep pace with the heavy hooves. “Please.” He repeated, a finger on his lips with a movement of the head towards his father.

 

    D’Artagnan straightened in the saddle, the simple fact of standing in the stirrups igniting a wave of fire under his right shoulder blade. He pulled on the reins to slow down his horse.

 

“Your father told you to go to your mother.” D’Artagnan whispered, respecting the boy’s wish.

“I couldn’t find her. She is with _la vieille Xaverine._ ”

 

    D’Artagnan stopped his horse.

 

“Who?”

“ _La vieille Xaverine_ , they say that she is a witch, but she is like my _maman_ , une _guérisseuse_[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39031952#chapter_2_endnotes). They went to find plants in the woods and they don’t like me in their way.”

“So?”

 

     The boy looked up at him with a sheepish expression.

 

“Alright, give me your hand, but once in Paris, don’t involve me in this story.”

“Yes, Sir!” The boy replied with a wide smile which drew a sun of white lines in the black filth smearing his cheeks.

 

    D’Artagnan settled the boy and the dog in front of him and urged his horse to walk again.

 

“Who is he?” The boy murmured closing his mouth just before his dog’s tongue entered it.

“Who?”

“The man under the flag. Is he the King?”

“No, he is … was the first minister.” D’Artagnan explained patiently even if the pain made him more and more dizzy.

“What is it?” The boy asked. “A minister, I mean.”

 

    D’Artagnan realised that the child was probably no more than seven or eight.

 

“A very important person.”

“And the King?”

“He is a very important person too.”

“Like my father?”

“In a way. Like the father of the country.”

 

    D’Artagnan thought that the word _father_ wasn't adequate, either for the former King or for his son.

 

“He must be very old.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“At least … old like you?”

 

    D’Artagnan chuckled and tightened his grip around the small waist. Agreeing to take the boy on his horse was a little selfish, he realised. The candour of the child’s words, the warmth of the too thin body were a comfort he hadn’t expected. The dog sat on its master’s lap, its head straight, suddenly very calm and quiet, his pink long tongue a wet banner floating in the evening wind. D’Artagnan let his hand slide over the yellowish fur, if the thing covering the animal’s body could be called fur. The contact reminded him more of a stack of straw.

 

“Younger than me.”

“What?”

“The King is younger than me.”

“Oh!”

“Younger than you.” D’Artagnan murmured, the image of the dying Louis so vivid in his mind.

“Me? So he can’t be a father.”

“That’s why there is a Regent. The man who died today.”

“But he is the Minister.”

“Yes, but he was the Regent too.”

 

    The boy remained silent. D’Artagnan let his thoughts drift. The towers of Notre Dame appeared through the feathers of mist rising from the _Seine_ and he felt his heart constricting. Something was wrong, he knew it. The pain had considerably increased and the white veil covering his eyes had nothing to do with the sweat on his brow. He tried to concentrate again on Aramis’ ridiculous blue feather -of course he wouldn’t dare say such a thing in front of him- but the mere swaying of both the feather and the man’s back made him even more nauseous. _No, you have to keep going. Aramis and Athos don’t need one more problem. Constance mustn’t know_. He focused his mind on trying to solve this problem : how to hide his current state?

 

“Are you well, Sir?”

“Call me d’Artagnan?”

“Is it your first name?”

“No, it’s Charles.”

“My name is Louison. I always thought it was a girl’s name because the blacksmith has a daughter whose name is Louison, and there is another Louison who is a girl, the cousin of Jeannette.”

“What do you think of Anne?” D’Artagnan asked gently.

“What?”

“The name Anne.”

“It’s a girl’s name! Of course it is.”

 

    D’Artagnan knew an Anne who had the look of a Greek goddess but was a murderer and a sly viper who had almost destroyed everything.  More cruel than most of the men he knew. There was another Anne, who looked like a porcelain doll but had the mind and the strength of a king.

 

“There are men who are called Anne, you know.” He continued.

“It’s a joke.” The boy said turning his bright wide eyes towards him .

“No, I’m serious.”

“No.”

 

    The boy crossed his little arms over his chest.

 

“I am. There was Anne de Montmorency. A constable of France.”

“What is that?”

“Important person as well. Friend of our king _François 1er._ ”

“More important than you?” The naive voice came again.

“More than me.”

“More than the man who doesn’t smile?”

“Who?” D'Artagnan asked, albeit knowing the answer.

“The man with the green eyes and who doesn’t smile?”

“Oh, Athos, our Captain, yes, much more… I think there was a bishop who was named Anne.”

“Maybe he was a woman. We can’t know because bishops have long dresses. I have never seen a bishop but there is one in the church, a stone bishop.”

 

    D’Artagnan felt his lips stretch in a fond smile. He couldn’t express how good it was to chat with the little boy. He was life in a world of death and it was a balm to his wounded heart and body.

 

“Do you think I can be a musketeers when I grow up? Even if I have a girl’s name?” The boy whispered, afraid of being heard by his taciturn father.

 

    D’Artagnan suppressed a laugh because he needed to be quiet but it hurt him in a way he hadn’t expected. He tried to catch his breath and to silence his cough, but his lungs refused to work. A small hand came on his and squeezed his fingers.

 

“ _Maman_ always says that when you can’t stop coughing you have to think about something beautiful.”

 

    Constance. The flowers in her hair the day of their wedding. Her perfect waist wrapped in cream satin. The light in her auburn curls. The chubbiness of childhood still visible on her smooth hands in spite of the hard work. The way she smiled, a lopsided smile, like Athos, but without the sadness and weariness. Her scent. The ...

 

“Monsieur? ..Monsieur d’Artagnan!” Louison cried suddenly, a tinge of fear in his young voice. “ _Papa_!” He screamed suddenly, as he felt the weight of the young Musketeer on his back.

 **oooo0000O0000oooo**                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

**_Porthos_ **

     As soon as he was alone under the archway, Porthos allowed his body to sag against the wall. He tried to breathe through his nose, his jaw clenched, his fingers gripping the hard stones at his back. Would this nightmare end soon ? Each day brought its load of pain and sorrow. He looked up at the sky where, intermittently,  the reddening sun was hidden by big dark clouds rolling above the roofs and seemed to wink at him as if saying _Look, I am still here, still the same, while you, poor little thing_ … Porthos shook himself angrily and left the garden. The air on the other side of the big walls was surprisingly cool. He shivered as the sweat underneath his uniform became suddenly almost icy cold. He rubbed his arms and was tempted to wrap them around his torso as he did when he was a child, when the whole world seemed an enemy.

 

“‘Should work with us, this one. ‘Would be warmer.”

 

    Porthos stopped his frantic movements. Another voice continued in a slightly slurred articulation.

 

“You’re right, Ernest. Palace life softens even big guys like him.”

 

    Said big guy turned abruptly towards the two workers whose smiles froze on their faces. Under the murderous glare they received, they suddenly found something very interesting at the bottom of their cups. Porthos decided to ignore them and turned his attention towards the Seine.

 

    He didn’t have to wait too long but his eyes widened when the strange procession appeared preceded by a small ball of shaggy yellow fur which ran towards him and barked, showing a highly menacing row of small white teeth. Porthos picked the wild beast up and looked at it with the same look he had looked at the workers. The dog had the same reaction and licked Porthos’ hand. The big man put it down onto the dusty ground and walked towards the wagon, his feet suddenly heavy, his throat too dry.

 

_**To be continued ... in three days ;-)** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gérisseuse = healer


	3. A Special Compass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's our duty"...
> 
> I think it's the best summary for this chapter.
> 
> Enjoy 
> 
> ♥♥♥

**_Aramis_ **

 

“ _Papa_!”

 

      The unexpected childish cry startled Aramis. His muddled brain took a moment to realise who had shouted and to whom. He turned around abruptly and again, his brain took a few seconds to register what was the meaning of what his eyes saw. He jumped from his mare and ran towards d’Artagnan’s horse. The farmer had already grabbed his son’s arm and admonished him in his low menacing voice.

      Aramis calmed him with a hand on his shoulder and together they managed to extricate the boy from underneath the barely conscious Musketeer. The child took his dog in his arm and went to sit down on a big stone, watching the scene with worry and fear in his wide teary eyes. He watched as his father and the man with the blue feather worked silently together to steady d’Artagnan, he watched as Aramis gently laid his hand on the young man’s cheek, brushing it gently with his thumb. He shivered when he saw the young musketeer’s head loll and drop forward.

 

“He can’t continue.” Aramis whispered. “We must help him to dismount.”

 

      Louison watched in awe as d’Artagnan opened his eyes sluggishly and shook his head, mumbling a barely distinct _I’m fine_.

 

“Don’t!” Aramis chidded, his forefinger raised a few inches from the young man’s nose, making him squint a little . “You-are-not-fine.”

 

      D’Artagnan straightened in his saddle, grimacing as a hot blade of pain pierced his back. Both men gripped his arms more tightly to keep him from falling down but the stubborn Gascon managed to stay upright, his feverish eyes fixed on the roofs of Paris.

 

“ _Tête de cochon[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/38984681#chapter_3_endnotes) _.” Aramis grumbled, his eyes blazing. “Die in your saddle, if it’s what is dictated by your stupid misplaced pride.”

“Ara …”

 

      Aramis fixed him with such fury in his dark eyes that d’Artagnan instinctively bowed his head. Aramis threw his hat onto the dusty path and ran a nervous hand through his dishevelled hair.

 

“Don’t you think that death has already taken enough people today?”

“I’m not dying. I’m just tired, sore and …” he couldn’t finish and caught his lower lip between his teeth to hide his emotions.

 

      Aramis sighed defeatedly, all the anger drained his body, making him feel suddenly exhausted.

 

“Sad, I know.” He said in a whisper, gripping his friend’s hand. “But promise me that as soon as we are in Paris, you will let me see what is wrong with you.”

“There is nothing wrong with me...” D’Artagnan murmured turning his hand in his friend’s and squeezing to reassure him… or himself.

 

    Aramis felt a small hand pull on his sleeve.

 

“Sir, your hat.”

“Thank you, Louison.”

“Can I stay with you?”

“No, you can’t.” His father growled.

 

      Aramis raised his eyes towards d’Artagnan who sent him a pleading look.

 

“ _Monsieur_ , I think your son has been very useful and probably saved my friend from a nasty fall. Maybe he should ride with him again.”

“If you say so.” The farmer said climbing back onto the wagon and cracking his whip.

 

      Aramis hauled the boy onto d’Artagnan’s Friesian and took his place at the head of the convoy determined to trap his young friend somewhere to discover what he was hiding.

 

**oooo0000O0000oooo**

****

**_Athos_ **

 

       It was late now, the thick grey clouds had darkened the sky where the last rays of sun inflamed the horizon, reddening the golden stones of the massive walls of _Le Louvre_ and glowing behind the roofs as if the whole city were on fire. He watched as two lackeys lit torches on each side of the archway.

       His friends … Why did it take them so long? A wave of guilt made him shiver. He shouldn’t have left. Why was it necessary to leave? He had to prepare for their arrival, of course ... or was he merely a hypocrite and a coward unable to add one more death to the long list in his life? He snorted. Once again his duty as the Captain of the Musketeers had come before his duty as a brother. Palace duty, ridiculous and pompous palace duty! What if the political protocol stole another brother? He shook his head and sighed, his breath forming a small cloud on the window pane.  

 

“Athos.”

 

       The soft but firm voice of the Queen made him leave his dark thoughts and tear his eyes away from the window through which he hoped he would see the convoy arrive... at last. He hadn’t even realised that he had his back turned towards the young woman.

 

“I’m sorry, your Majesty, I was …”

“I know.”

 

       She laid her hand on his forearm. He flinched and straightened his back, resuming his military stance.

 

“We are friends, Athos.”

      

       He cocked his head and looked at her with a small -almost shy- bitter smile.

 

“Not really, your Majesty.”

 

       She looked at him with surprise but there was no anger in her porcelain blue eyes.

 

“We will have to organise the funerals, I want him to be …”

 

       She stopped as she saw Athos suddenly take a step sideways closer to the window, as if needing a support, and grab the frame, the leather of his gloves cracking with the strength of his grip.. Ignoring his complete disrespect of the protocol, he turned his back again and lay his forehead on the pane.

 

“I’m sorry Athos, we will talk about the arrangements in a few days. You need time, we all need time.”

 

       A movement outside caught her eyes. A wagon and two horsemen entered the _Cour_.

 

“It’s time, Athos, come with me.”

 

       He stayed a few seconds to look at the scene below, nodded and followed her through the cold corridors, his heart beating too fast, his palms clammy. For a moment he thought that they would be alone to welcome them. He had anxiously imagined the scene, he had repeated the words in his head. He thought he would be free to leave the palace quickly after the Minister’s body was taken care of, but he was wrong. When they arrived outside, there were a lot of people gathered below the high walls. Grim men, dressed in old fashion black doublets, royal guards and a few ladies-in-waiting who had followed the Queen without him noticing them. He stood behind the Queen, resuming his role as the Captain of the Musketeers even if his heart longed to throw himself towards his friends, to know, at last, why d’Artagnan looked so pale and in pain, to comfort Aramis and Porthos… and to be comforted by them as his tired mind reminded him.

       Porthos…  from the room where he was waiting with the Queen, he had seen him run. He had seen him with a little dog and remembered that it was the farmer’s dog. Then the wagon had appeared with Aramis leading it. In two strides the big man had reached his friend’s mare and gripped the reins to steady it. Aramis had dismounted with less grace than usual. For a moment, they had stayed face to face until Porthos had slung an arm around his best friend’s shoulders to draw him against his chest, comforting and taking comfort. Aramis had patted his shoulder reassuringly, before pulling away shaking his head sadly and pulling the brim of his hat over his face.

       The Queen turned around and looked at Athos with so much compassion that he understood her previous words _…_ _We are friends_.

 

“Go, Athos, go to them. Take a moment with them, they need you. Then, I’m sorry but you must …”

“Yes, I know, thank you, your Majesty. I will be quick.”

 

       He bowed under the suspicious glares of the ‘black doublets’ and ran, not towards Aramis, who didn’t need him for now, but towards d’Artagnan who was still hunched in his saddle. When Athos reached the horse, he noticed the dark shadows around the young man’s eyes, the sweat glistening on his forehead, his lanky strands sticking to his abnormally grey skin. Athos raised a hand to grip his elbow.

 

“Let me help you.” He whispered.

“I don’t need help.” d’Artagnan snapped, but made no movement to dismount.

“He is lying.” The boy said, that skinny child who seemed the only reason why d’Artagnan hadn’t fallen yet.

“I know.” Athos answered. “I will help you first, young man.”

 

       Taking the boy in his arms he lowered him onto the ground. The dog came to him and barked, receiving from the ‘black doublets’ the same glare as the one Athos had received .

 

“Nobody will notice, d’Artagnan. How many times do I need to repeat that there is no shame in asking for help?”

“Coming from you… I could laugh if …mmh.”

“If you weren’t in so much pain. I’m sorry, you have to dismount now, with or without my help. Palace duty.”

 

       He looked into the teary dark eyes with such intensity that d’Artagnan, defeated,  nodded slightly. He slung his right leg above his horse’s neck and let Athos lean against the flanks of the strong stallion and grip his friend’s hand tightly. D’Artagnan slipped heavily from the high beast and Athos hurried to curl an arm around his waist to steady him. A stable boy came to take the horses, Athos let go of his friend’s waist as soon as he was able to stay on his feet and, when the young man nodded, he headed toward the small crowd gathered around the wagon. Suddenly, d’Artagnan felt cold and empty, his feet unable to remember how to work. Then he remembered… _there is no shame in asking for help_...

 

“Ath…”

 

**oooo0000O0000oooo**

_  
_

**_D’Artagnan_ **

 

       He stared at Athos’ stiff back for a moment, pondering whether to stay where he was, like an allegory statue of pain and sorrow, to try to follow his Captain or …

 

“Ath …”

 

       Athos continued towards the wagon. D’Artagnan froze. Was he voluntarily ignoring him? He shouldn’t have replied with the arrogance of an ill-mannered child. Athos was angry. He felt a lump slowly forming in his throat, reminding him of his childhood, when he wanted so badly to make his father proud, or of his early years at the garrison when he tried desperately to earn an approving raised eyebrow from Athos. He shook his head but it made the world swirl around him and his stomach rebel. His vision blurred and just before closing his eyes he had a glimpse of Aramis who had just turned his head towards him, his eyes wide in panic but too far away, with too many human obstacles on his way,  to intervene.The next thing he noticed was the warmth of another body against his and the world stopped its dizzying dance.

 

“Come on.” The rumbling deep voice murmured in his ear.

 

       He didn’t dare open his eyes, he didn’t want to see the contemptuous expression of the members of the Court. He didn’t want to see the smiles and frowns.

 

“Can you walk? A few feet, no more. Let me help you.” Athos murmured again. “They won’t look. We have to stand for a few minutes in the room where they have laid …” he hesitated … “the body, but the Queen knows.”

 

       He expected Athos to release his hold on his waist and left arm again, but the Captain just tightened his grip and started walking, slowly, cautiously.

 

“As soon as you are free, you must go back to the garrison and let Constance…” Athos began, before slapping his forehead. “Oh, no !”

“What?”

“The Queen has asked Constance and Sylvie to stay with the Dauphin. I don’t know when they will be able to leave. Tonight, I hope.”

“Oh!” D’Artagnan breathe out, disappointment colouring his voice and a touch of relief which surprised Athos.

“Well, you must take care of your wound.”

“I have no …”

“Don’t lie to me, young man. Remember, you are more like me than you know. You should know this now. Shall we go?”

 

       D’Artagnan opened his eyes and saw a row of backs entering the palace, no face turned towards them, no  glare, no disgusted rictus. They walked slowly, keeping a semblance of professionalism. After all, two Musketeers at the head, two at the back, where was the problem? He looked at Athos and found compassion in his eyes and a gentle smile which deepened the wrinkles around his eyes, making him look -ironically- younger. D’Artagnan decided to ignore the sweat coating his back, the constant tremors, the pain so violent now that it numbed his whole right side. Instead, he let the grey-green depths of his friend’s eyes reassure him.

       Soon, without him noticing the rooms where they walked, the four Musketeers stood on both sides of a table covered with a large sheet of thick brocade where their former Captain had been laid. His face looked almost peaceful but d’Artagnan chose to look elsewhere. He couldn’t look at those admired and respected features. He couldn’t trust his body, his brain, his heart. He heard the floorboards creak and felt  Athos’ presence again and his hand back on his wrist. On the other side, he saw Aramis frown and Porthos shake his head. Voices were buzzing around him. The Queen said something in a firm voice, but he couldn’t understand the words. Then, again, Athos’ discreet hand on his wrist, squeezing, reassuring.

 

“It won’t take long.” Athos murmured again.

 

       Someone coughed on their right and he turned his head meeting the eyes of a man dressed in a rich scarlet velvet doublet, a crooked grey wig on his head making him look like a big _pièce montée*_ left too long under a fierce sun. But the cake had a disapproving look and d’Artagnan shivered.

 

“Look ahead.” Athos murmured. “It won’t take long now.” He repeated.

 

       It felt long, however. D’Artagnan’s throat was dry and it made him want to cough or swallow. Suddenly, he noticed movements around him. Athos said something in his ear and left, the courtiers and the sinister men dressed in black began to move and, bowing towards the Queen and the dead Minister, they left the room. Even the terrible “cake” left. Aramis and Porthos followed the Queen outside with a last glance at their friend and suddenly, unexpectedly (When had the Captain come back?) Athos’ face was the only thing he saw. The clear water of his eyes instantly calming his nerves.

 

“D’Artagnan, we can’t go with you, the Queen allowed me to accompany you to your horse and help you, but we have our duties here. I’m sorry, I have tried… but … I don’t understand why she ...”

“I can manage.”

“You can manage to break your neck. Come on, and promise me you will be careful.”

“Athos, I just have to cross the Seine.” D’Artagnan smiled gently.

 

       Athos snorted.

 

“What?”

“You have a special compass pointing at danger, my friend… or rather, danger has a special compass pointing at you.” He said, his forefinger on his friend’s heart.

 

       Then he caught the young man’s elbow to lead him towards the boy who waited with the horses.

 

**oooo0000O0000oo**

  
  
**_Porthos_ **

  


“Why are we here?” Porthos whispered to Aramis, twisting his mouth to speak in a vain effort to be discreet.

“Because it’s our duty.” Aramis answered, hidden behind his curls now free from the thin strip of leather usually tying them in a short ponytail. “I don’t like that.” He added looking at Porthos through his wild strands.

“What?”

“Stop twisting your mouth, it’s ridiculous!”

“You don’t like … ?” Porthos asked, deciding to ignore his friend’s sharp remark but shortening his sentences nevertheless.

“D’Artagnan, standing here instead of lying in an infirmary.” Aramis explained.

 

       A few heads turned towards them and they caught Athos’ reproving glare. Aramis frowned with a questioning look and Athos nodded briefly, his expression more gentle, emphasising his silent reassurance by moving his arm to show his hand still gripping d’Artagnan’s wrist, sightly hidden between them. Aramis nodded approvingly. Porthos sighed angrily.

 

“Stupid Court.” He muttered.

 

        Then he tried to stay calm, to ignore his boiling blood, to look everywhere but at the body, to keep himself from bursting into tears like a child. This day had definitely made them weak and exhausted. At last the courtiers and the Queen left with Athos following her closely, talking to her, shaking his head in a way Porthos and Aramis recognised : Athos was trying to convince her of something. They stopped walking and the Queen faced him. Athos nodded almost sheepishly and bowed then he came back towards them.

 

“We must stay. D’Artagnan can leave.”

“But it’s …” Porthos began.

“Porthos, we have orders from the Queen. Do you think I haven’t tried to convince her?” He snapped, a deep crease barring his forehead, his hand tensing on the hilt of his sword.

“She is …” Porthos tried again but stopped when Aramis’ hand grabbed his arm, squeezing painfully.

“She is the Queen, we are her servants.” Athos concluded harshly even if Porthos heard the bitter undertone in his raspy voice. “Do your duty, now. I’ll accompany d’Artagnan to his horse.”

 

       He left the room and Porthos watched him a moment before catching up with Aramis.

 

“Porthos, calm down or you will be the first case of spontaneous combustion I meet.”

“I don’t feel like joking… How can you...?” Porthos growled, his eyes dark with fury.

 

       He quickened his pace, ignoring the frustrated sigh of his best friend and the way he stared at his large back with glistening eyes before following him...

 

_To be continued ..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tête de cochon : pig head


	4. It Never Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely reviews. 
> 
> Today I am ... Well... ladies don't tell their age ... Let's say that, maybe, I'm too old to write fanfiction. LOL
> 
> Enjoy chapter 4.  
> Next chapter in 3 days.
> 
> ♥♥♥

_**D’Artagnan** _

 

       Well, at least he was on horseback again instead of standing in a stuffing room trying not to collapse, but his challenge now was to stay in his saddle. He let his horse lead the way. The beautiful stallion knew each cobble, each pothole, each puddle of the streets of Paris. D’Artagnan hesitated before crossing the _Seine_ , the shortest way was the _bac[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39122938/preview#chapter_4_endnotes)_, but the new bridge, a little further, meant less movements and less waiting. Anyway, he didn’t have a single coin to pay the crossing.

       Thinking that, for now, Constance knew nothing about his current state was comforting. He would try to enter the garrison without being noticed then he would be able to take off his uniform and see what could hurt him so much... without any prying eye… Stupid idea... Of course, it was impossible. There were always two guards at the gate and they would surely notice how unsteady he was and warn the others.

       D’Artagnan crossed the _Seine_ rather easily by the _Pont Neuf_ ,  but he was more and more bent over his horse’s neck. It was dark now and the only lights in the narrow streets were those of the numerous taverns where the common people tried to forget the cruelty of their life in cups of sour ale and in the arms of filthy plump girls whose working day began after nightfall.

       He couldn’t have explained how his paces led him near _Saint-Sulpice_ in a street parallel to _Rue Férou_ , in a place he recognised immediately in spite of the darkness. The house was abandoned now. Constance had inherited almost nothing from the late Monsieur Bonacieux, the benefit of his declining trade had gone to his three sisters who were now fighting over this empty shell. Constance could have taken the furniture, but she had wanted to erase this chapter of her life. She had only brought with her a few things she loved.

D’Artagnan led his horse toward the Bonacieux’ house and managed to dismount without worsening his pain but he stumbled and had to grip a barrel which had been left against the wall. He leant his head against the stone and tried to breathe calmly, remembering Aramis’ advice about how calm and deep breathing could tame the worst pains. He didn’t know if it was a good idea, but he realised he had just found a den where he could discreetly lick his wounds provided that he could open the door...

  


“Look at this one, the fishing is good tonight, he is drunk.” A young voice laughed.

  


       D’Artagnan didn’t bother looking at the group of urchins who watched him in a menacing semicircle... He just thought that they should be with their parents until he realised that they were probably orphans living in the streets. Porthos’ face briefly materialised in front of his eyes at the thought and he shook his head to erase the unwelcome image. If he thought of them now, he would go to the garrison and admit his weakness. The first stones he received were no more than pebbles but when he turned around, one of the older boys shouted angrily.

 

“He is a Musketeer. If that’s their famous code of honour!”

 

       Another stone landed on his temple, and this one wasn’t a tiny pebble, but something big enough to cut his skin and make him see a myriad of silver butterflies.

  
“Fight, you coward!” A boy added aggressively.

 

       D’Artagnan tried to take his horse’s reins as the animal began to become restless but a shower of stones hit the beast which neighed, kicked up and disappeared into the night throwing its master against the door. It took his breath away as his back hit the big protruding nails. The young man managed to seize his pistol and aim at the band of excited boys, his hand shaking so much that he couldn’t have hurt them. The shouting stopped at once. The boys hesitated half a second and dropped their pebbles, before running off. They had quickly understood that a Musketeer, even probably drunk, was still a Musketeer, in other words a heavily armed and skilled soldier.

       D’Artagnan sagged against the wood, a hand coming to his temple where a thin rivulet of blood had began trickling down his cheek. He clenched his jaw. He felt so alone. Why had he ended in this deserted place?

       Surprisingly, one of the doors was unlocked. He pushed it open and wandered through the rooms where he had so many memories. He let his fingers recognise the old polished dresser which no one had wanted, not fashionable enough for the Bonacieux sisters, too big for the d'Artagnans' lodgings at the garrison. The beautifully crafted piece of furniture was now covered in dust, one of its doors, hanging on one hinge, threatening to fall. He caressed the walls and the smooth curtains still hanging to a few windows upstairs, his fingers entangling themselves through a lacework of cobwebs. He searched a dusty wardrobe and taking advantage of a ray of the full moon managing to pierce the heavy clouds, he found a few pieces of fabric in a drawer -probably the hem of a too long dress Constance had adjusted-, and a bottle still containing a thimbleful of armagnac. Then he entered his former bedroom where he found a short candle which he managed to light.

       The place was bleak in the trembling flame and he felt his grief try to suffocate him. If he died in this dark lonely place, who would find him ? He thought of his wonderful wife, of his brothers… He couldn’t even remember why he had fled and decided to hide his wound. His muddled feverish brain had dictated this folly.  It was stupid, he had known it all along and now… now it was too late. His horse had fled, his legs couldn’t even bear his weight. He slumped on the bed from which a cloud of dust emerged making him cough, tears welling up in his exhausted eyes. He leant his head against the wall. His eyes closed against his will and he renounced fighting against exhaustion. He felt numb and warm. Soon he lost track of the time and let his mind drift towards a tormented slumber.

       When he awoke, shivering, the candle told him that a fair amount of time had passed. He straightened and sat with his elbows on in knees, his head in his hands but it awoke the pain in his back.

       He rose and approached the cracked mirror hanging above the chest where he had laid the fabric, the bottle and the candle. To complete his collection of bruises, his head hit the lamp. He had forgotten how low the ceiling was… Leaning forward, he put his hands on each side of the mirror, looking straight into his red rimmed eyes.

  
“Let’s do it.” He told his reflection.

  
       Then he began to remove his pauldron, to unbutton his jacket only to realise that the thick leather was the only reason why the pain hadn’t made him lose consciousness and the large amount of blood he should have already lost. His uniform had put pressure on the cut.   _Did I get a rat? The royal prize._ Grimaud’s words echoed in his head as he remembered how the sharp blade had entered his flesh just under his shoulder blade.

  
“Now, the shirt.” He explained to his reflection.

  
       Turning around slightly to better see what he was doing in the mirror, he slowly lifted his left hand and tried to peel off the soaked fabric. Sadly, the blood had dried enough to stick the linen to the cut. He pulled with all his strength and howled like a wounded dog. He stumbled and his knee hit the corner of the bed with a loud thud. He tried to straighten and observe the wound in the flickering light. The sword had sliced through his flesh along the rib cage. The visible part of the wound was small but the blade had run through the flesh, under the skin, over a length of about four inches , like a snake sliding just underneath the surface of a lake.

       He poured the armagnac onto a piece of smooth fabric and raised his left arm again, stifling his screams but as his hand touched the wound, a flash of white light blinded him and he felt himself being knocked forward by a force which made him fall, spilling the rest of the alcohol and knocking the candle.

 

**oooo0000O0000ooo**

  _ **Athos** _

“Captain, Captain! At last, you are here! We didn’t know what to do!”

 

       Athos almost jumped from his horse before the stallion stopped, closely followed by Aramis and Porthos. He felt his heart miss a beat as he saw the face of the young recruit guarding the gate.

 

“Livonnet, what’s the matter?” He shouted, his voice rough with anxiety, seizing the lapels of the lad’s jacket. “What happened? Speak!”

 

       Aramis’ hand on his shoulder made him realise how scared the boy was, because he was still a boy and what he had to say to his Captain scared him because his Captain scared him. Porthos stepped between them and raised his hands in an appeasing gesture.  Athos stepped back escaping Aramis’ comforting touch with a brisk shrug but the hand came back to knead the tense muscles of his shoulders. They waited, holding their breath while the boy tried to explain..

 

“Cherbonnier and I were just beginning our watch when …”

“Where is Cherbonnier?” Athos asked sharply approaching the young man.

“He is in the stables grooming d’Artagnan’s horse.”

“What?” Aramis exclaimed.

“The horse came here alone, about one hour ago with cuts on the back. Cherbonnier took care of them. Nothing serious but the horse is restless as if afraid of the stables, or … I don’t know... I’m sorry, Captain, we haven't seen d’Artagnan.”

“Why didn’t you send …” Athos began.

“Athos.” Aramis cut him gently. “They were alone. They are inexperienced.”

 

       Athos sighed and bowed his head, ashamed of his reaction. He had to calm down and think rationally.

 

“I’m sorry Livonnet, you did well, thank you.” He said gently with a nod.

  
       Livonnet sent him a shaky smile and returned to his post. Cherbonnier left the stables, brushing his hand over his thighs. He wasn’t older than Livonnet but was more confident and their moody Captain didn’t scare him, he had seen worse with a violent father and three elder brothers who had more fists than brain. He ran a hand through his shaggy straw-like hair.

 

“Captain.” He saluted.

  
       Athos nodded in response to the rather idle salute.

  
“Well.” Aramis concluded as they watched Cherbonnier take his post opposite to Livonnet.

“Where can he be?” Porthos muttered.

“He is wounded. I should have …” Aramis began.

“It’s I who should have ...” Athos added.

“No more should haves, my friends, now we must do something.” Porthos snapped.

  
       Athos stepped between his friends and led the way to his office. Porthos and Aramis looked at each other and shrugged. When they entered the room, Athos was bent over a map of Paris, his forefinger slowly brushing the crumpled paper, following the streets and bridges.

 

“We will search this area” he explained, all emotions contained now, hidden behind the military mask.

 

    Aramis frowned. He knew how to recognise Athos’ fragilities behind this severe professional mask. He and Porthos came to stand on each side of him, under the pretext of reading the map, but more as a support and a shield for their broken friend.

 

“Porthos, you take this part, along the _Seine_ , take a torch and search this bank, from here to here. Ask everyone you meet. Aramis, go back to _Le Louvre_ , ask everyone you meet, search the banks there. I will search around Saint-Sulpice. Search the taverns, search every back alley, every hidden yard… Everywhere.” His voice broke as he finished.

“We will find him Athos. He can fight, even wounded. If …” Aramis began.

“Why did he hide it from us?” Athos whispered, his hand landing flat on the map, making the inkwell tremble and the quill fall on the floor, splashing it with a firework of tiny black speckles.

“He had a good teacher.” Porthos answered gently. “By the way, when was the last time you slept and ate?” He added, rubbing Athos’ back.

“I’m fine.” Athos snapped. “Let’s bring him back, wherever he is. Try to send word if you find something. Take these purses and pay anyone who can give you the slightest information.”

“We will find him.” Aramis repeated, his hand coming to briefly squeeze Athos’ nape, his fingers meeting cold sweat and matted long hair.

 

     They suddenly heard a commotion coming from the courtyard, panicked shouts and the unmistakable sounds of hooves clattering on the cobbles. Athos shook off the comforting warmth of Aramis’ hand, straightened and with an expression more somber than ever, he rounded his desk to reach the door … which opened before he even had a chance to put his hand on the knob. A disheveled Livonnet appeared, blood leaking between the fingers which covered his right temple.

 

“Capt … Captain … I’m sorry… It’s …” He stammered, his big hazelnut eyes bright with childish tears.

  
       Aramis removed his hand to have a look at the wound, a shallow bleeding cut already surrounded by a grey-purple cloud.

 

“What happened?” He asked; softening his tone enough to draw the boy’s attention, the latter looking at his Captain with wide scared eyes.

“It’s … _Bouton d’or_ **[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39122938/preview#chapter_4_endnotes)** … he escaped. The stable boy... he wanted to add some fresh hay in his box and … the door ...We tried … and …I was … I hit the wall when I tried to ... I don’t know wh … He fled...” Livonnet finished, his shoulders slumping defeatedly.

“It’s alright. Calm down. You did nothing wrong. This beast is as hot headed as his master … and as loyal.” Porthos tried to calm him. “You should tend to this cut.” He added brushing away a lock of auburn hair which had fallen over the wound.

 

       As Livonnet hesitated, obviously waiting for his Captain to dismiss him or in the worst case lash out at him, Porthos said, snapping his fingers in front of the boy’s eyes :

  


“Go. Now.”

  
       He didn’t wait and rushed into the corridor, his hand still clutching at his bleeding temple. Athos was silent.

 

“Athos?” Porthos whispered laying a tentative hand on his shoulder.

  
       Athos froze.

 

“It never ends.” He finally sighed in an unsteady voice, before leaving the office under the worried looks of his friends.

  


**oooo0000O0000ooo**

**Aramis**

 

        The acrid smell of the torch that he held in his left hand was nauseating. Aramis trusted his mare to obey him even if he had both reins in one hand. Naïade* was very sensitive and knew her master and his feelings but during their slow walk through the streets of Paris, she was as nervous as he was. She felt that something was amiss and the flickering light of the torch, the heavy smoke swirling around her head, added to the shaking legs squeezing her flanks bothered her.

 

“Calm down, my beauty.” Aramis whispered leaning towards the velvety ears. “Calm down yourself.” He then ordered himself in a frustrated whisper.

 

        All the images of this terrible day came back to haunt him in a dizzying carousel. His son who would never be his son, the Queen in Saint-Sulpice, Tréville’s mistrust, Tréville’s sacrifice, his inability to save him, d’Artagnan barely able to stand but hiding his pain with so much courage, Porthos’ both sad and furious red rimmed eyes, Athos’ features almost like marble, frozen in his effort to hide his feelings. He swallowed a sigh which was almost a sob as he thought that, perhaps, he would be too late once more. He should have …

        He was stopped in his depressing thoughts when the door of a tavern opened and a bucket of unidentified liquid splashed between Naïade’s legs, making her stumble. He looked down and met a distorted face staring at him, the left cheek and the mouth barred by a deep gash which had been badly sewn, half an inch of lip missing just under the nose. One of the man’s eyes was white and his teeth turned his smile into a monstrous grimace. He was barely able to stay on his feet, but the content of the bucket had disturbed his drunken slumber so he had left the wall against which he had planned to spend the night.

 

“Wazz’e matter wi’ you Musketeerzz, tonigh’? Unable to ride pro’erly?” The slurred voice shouted aggressively.

 

        Aramis looked down at the man who leant against the wall of the tavern. He seemed to have more alcohol than blood in his veins but Aramis was surprised by his words.

 

“What do you mean?”

“I wazzz a soldier, once, y’know. War… The war made this… “ He added, a trembling finger pointing at his face.

“What about _us Musketeers_?” Aramis asked again barely able to contain his irritation.

“The other one, earlier. Lying on his horse as’f it wazzz a mattress.”

“Where did he go?” Aramis asked with trepidation.

“Don’ know. Don’ care.”

  
        Aramis took the purse from his pocket and made it jump in his hand, tempting the man with the metallic sound.

  
“East.” He answered catching, in one hand in spite of his current state, the flying coin which Aramis sent .

“And precisely?”

“You know, _mon bon seigneur*_ , my eye s’nt as good as it used to …”

 

        Another coin flew through the air and he caught it as deftly as the first one.

  
“Wazzz heading towa’zz…there …. _Ile de la Cité_. Then I… I swear,” he raised a solemn hand, “I zwear t’ wazzz too dark…”   

 

        The rest of his sentence was addressed to Aramis’ back. The Musketeer had found an ounce of hope in the vagabond’s words but it was also a source of worry. D’Artagnan, the brilliant horseman unable to stay upright in his saddle wasn’t a good sign and again, guilt and fear numbed Aramis’ mind. He let Naïade lead him for a moment, before realising that he hadn’t searched the banks, only the maze of narrow streets surrounding _Le Louvre._

        When he reached the swirling dark waters, he dismounted and felt his stomach lurch, a strong nausea invading him. It wasn’t the smell of the putrid mud or the heavy smoke of the torch. It was just the fear of what he could find… He gave a few more coins but didn’t learn anything interesting. Nobody had seen any wounded Musketeer in this area. He searched from _Le Louvre_ to the _Pont Neuf_. Nothing. As he mounted, he noticed that his hands were shaking and his knees felt weak. He wasn’t physically hurt but emotionally exhausted. Fear, guilt, grief… He had to lean against his mare’s flanks before trying to haul himself onto her high back, even with this short pause, the world around him spun in a dizzying dance when he put his foot in the stirrup.

  
**oooo0000O0000ooo**

**Porthos**

  
“Stupid, stupid, stupid Court.” Porthos repeated under his breath all the while squinting in the orange glow of the torch to search the banks of the _Seine._

  
        For now, he didn’t feel the exhaustion which the others were experiencing after the battle and he hadn’t seen the last spark of life in the eyes of their former Captain but he was furious. His friends had endured so many wounds, physical and emotional wounds. When would this insanity end?

        He had almost felt his heart stop a few minutes earlier when his eyes had caught something approximately the size of a human body floating just underneath the surface of the dark waters. He had more fallen from his horse than dismounted, his legs shaking violently only to discover that the ‘thing’ was in fact a trunk whose branches looked like thin arms.

        He was climbing back the steep muddy slope when he thought that he had forgotten an important potential witness. He rode back towards the embankment where the _passeur **[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39122938/preview#chapter_4_endnotes) **_usually waited for his clients. He slapped his thigh angrily when he noticed that the _bac_ was tethered to a big half submerged pole but the man was nowhere to be seen. Porthos realised that it was late and the man had stopped his activity for lack of clients.

        He rode for a few minutes looking at the other bank where the windows of Le Louvre were like sparkling stars in the inky night. He felt his anger against the Court rise again. Life and etiquette continued there while his friends were suffering. He tried to figure out which one of these ‘stars’ hid Tréville’s body. He tried to swallow the wave of resentment which filled his throat with bile. He imagined Aramis, riding on the other bank, alone with his dark thoughts, with his grief and, probably -Porthos knew him so well- his guilt... Athos shouldn’t have sent him in this area, too close to his impossible love, too close to his son…but Athos wasn’t himself. Eaten by guilt and fear, broken, hurt, desperate... _Sangbleu!_ What had become of them all? What had become of this country? He had to be strong, for them.

  
“ _Grand Pierre_ , another one!” A young hushed voice called from somewhere behind him in a failed attempt to be discreet.

“Stop, _le borgne **[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39122938/preview#chapter_4_endnotes)**_ , not him!” Another voice, more mature, answered as discreetly.

  
        Porthos jumped and wield his torch like a weapon towards the voices. He swept the torch in an arc in front of him with a sinister _woooof_ and discovered a group of six boys pressed against a crumbling wall, dressed in rags, bare feet and filthy. The oldest child, maybe no more than thirteen, tried to keep a brave face but his companions quickly retreated between his back and the wall, almost making him stumble, under Porthos’ dark look.

 

“Another one what?” Porthos asked in a deep growling voice, taking advantage of the flames giving something devilish to his features. At least he hoped so.

“A Musketeer.” A boy or maybe a girl, Porthos couldn’t say given the filthy child’s layers of shapeless clothes.

“A Musketeer? Where? When?” He urged, his voice now thundering.

“Tell him, Lucie.” Grand Pierre ordered.

  
        A girl, then, Porthos noticed, and his thought briefly drifted to Flea and his own childhood. _Lucie_[ *****](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39122938/preview#chapter_4_endnotes)… poor thing, she was far from bright, there was no light in her eyes which must have seen too much misery during their short life and were already blank like those of an old woman...

 

“Near Saint-Sulpice, trying to enter a house, sir. He, he… wanted to kill us and he was drunk, he couldn’t even stand.” The girl stammered, her eyes wide with fear at the sight of Porthos’ frightening sword.

“That’s why we threw the stones, because he wanted to kill us.” A skinny boy added.

  
        Porthos didn’t try to argue and explain that his young friend would never hurt a child, so throwing a handful of coins to the children, he turned his horse toward _Saint-Sulpice_. He tried to think but his nerves didn’t allow it. He listed the different places where the young man could have gone. At least, he was still alive when the children had seen him and it was comforting. Still alive but barely able to stand and it was worrying. So, _Saint-Sulpice_ , maybe he had sought the protection of the Church, or _Rue Férou_ , after all, Athos’ landlady knew them all and could have allowed him to use the room and even help him… Athos was in this area, but there were so many streets, dark alleys and backyards, they could even be there together and never meet. He squeezed his legs and put his horse in a canter, the torch heating his face and the smoke irritating his eyes. If he had been Aramis, he would have started to pray… He wasn’t Aramis so he wasn’t sure to which invisible almighty he addressed his words when he started a litany to the rhythm of his horse’s paces and the beat of the first heavy drops of warm rain.

  
_Please, make him be alive, make him be alive, make him be alive…_

  


**To be continued ...**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bac : ferry (It gave its name to Rue du Bac where the Musketeers garrison was when d’Artagnan became the Captain of the Grey Musketeers in 1667.)  
> *Bouton d’or (Buttercup) : Name of d'Artagnan's horse in The Three Musketeers.  
> *Naïade : I changed the ‘official’ name of Aramis’ horse. I don’t even know if it’s a mare. Naïade is the name of one of my best friends’ horses.  
> *Mon bon seigneur: my good lord  
> *borgne : one eyed  
> *passeur: ferryman  
> *Lucie : From lux in Latin meaning 'light'.
> 
> The names Cherbonniet and Livonnet are from my family tree (somewhere around the 18th century).


	5. We don't give up ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for you lovely comments and birthday wishes.  
> ♥♥

**_Athos_ **

 

       Athos had taken charge of the largest area, in a triangle defined by _Saint-Germain_ , Le _Luxembourg_ and _Rue du Bac_. He had thoroughly searched the main streets from West to East and East to West, dutifully weaving his own web of research, entering their usual taverns, handing out enough money to corrupt the most incorruptible people, but he had found nothing, no trace, no clue, no witness. His cartesian mind told him to take the smallest streets now, from South to North and North to South. He was beyond exhaustion, to such an extent that his body didn’t feel it anymore, moving on sole instinct. His eyes burnt from the smoke and lack of sleep but he refused to close them because he hated the images which appeared behind his eyelids.

 

“Where are you?” He whispered, stretching his painful back. “Where are you? … Please …” He almost whimpered.

 

       He didn’t know to whom this ‘please’ was addressed. His young friend who hid somewhere and could die alone -or had been abducted or worse, even if he refused to consider such a terrible possibility-? God ? Aramis’ God, who had ignored him and whom he had ignored for so long? His friends who were somewhere, searching in this dreadful night?

       His quest and probably his instinct led him towards _rue Férou_ . The _place Saint-Sulpice_ was empty, dark, bleak, the two towers of the church standing out on the silver full moon which fought with the clouds announcing a probable thunderstorm. This area reminded him of a chapter of his life which he wanted to forget, when he still lived alone -well alone with a few bottles of _chinon **[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39148642/preview#chapter_5_endnotes) **_\- when he didn’t allow anyone to enter his heart because he refused to cause suffering either to himself or to others.

       He still had a key to his former room. The landlady was surely asleep so he used the other entrance and climbed the creaking old stairs, his torch roaring incongruously in the narrow corridor, the volutes of smoke becoming black and opaque under the low ceiling. He knew before arriving on the second landing that the place was empty. No light, no warmth, no smoke. Surely, if d’Artagnan had appeared at her door, the still young and lovely woman who took care of the house would have lit all the candles and a fierce fire would burn in the hearth for the handsome Musketeer, and she would have called a physician and sent word to the garrison.

       Athos opened the door, just to be certain, and looked around the room but it was definitely empty and cold. He felt his hope slowly diminish as the lump in his throat increased.  His horse waited patiently but when he saw his master, he beat the dirt with his big right front hoof.

 

“Yes, we will continue the whole night, and the whole day and the next night if necessary.”

 

       The horse neighed impatiently, showing his big yellowish teeth and shaking his big head.

 

“Oh, yes, you are thirsty. I am too, but not of the same liquid, I suspect.” He laughed, a silent bitter laugh. “Come on big boy, I know a place.”

 

       He untethered the big black stallion and walked beside him towards the _Jardin du Luxembourg_ , where the heavy perfume of the flower beds was rather refreshing compared to the foul smell of the narrow alleys surrounding _Saint-Sulpice_.

       He reluctantly left the calming sight of the garden under the moon and turned to his left, reaching the _Rue des Fossoyeurs_. He walked towards a place where he knew he would find enough water for his mount.

       He had almost reached his goal, a monumental well which provided rather clean and fresh water to the whole street when his horse neighed and nervously stomped his hooves.

 

“What is it?” Athos asked anxiously, scanning the surroundings in the trembling reddish glow of the torch.

 

       Another neighing answered and the beast pushed Athos against a tree.

 

“Calm down.” He whispered, caressing the big velvety nose.

 

       The horse nuzzled Athos’ neck for a moment but again, he snapped his head, he snorted and a high-pitched neighing answered. Athos held his breath trying to listen through the rustling of the leaves, through the sound of the first drops of rain, through the distant rumbling of thunder. The flames of the torch were almost horizontal because of the strong warm wind and the smoke was suffocating.

 

 _Calm down_ , he reasoned himself, _there are a lot of horses in Paris, but it could be…_

 

       He led his stallion further and realised that they were now near Constance’s former house. Under a lime tree, next to the wall, a beautiful black horse waited, head raised to catch the tender leaves.

 

“D’Artagnan.” Athos murmured, his tone a mixture of relief and apprehension.

 

       He approached the door and noticed that it was ajar. He left his horse beside the other one - and they recognised each other, snorting and neighing softly.

 

“Sorry for the water, but it seems that the sky will provide what you need very soon.  Steady! Stay here.”

 

       He patted the smooth neck and went to the door. He pushed it carefully and listened. The house was silent. The small entryway was dark but he spotted a sconce and took the big short candle, lighting it with his torch which he left outside, stuck between the wall and an abandoned barrel, praying that his only source of light would still burn when he left.

       He walked carefully, his free hand brushing the walls. The faint light of the candle cast dark shadows on the walls, which fought with short blinding lighting and the rays of moon entering through the dusty window panes. Athos stumbled, unable to accustom his eyes to this dance of lights.

       He looked up at the staircase leading to the first floor. He squinted as he noticed that it wasn’t as dark as the rest of the house. He approached the first step and listened attentively. A sound he hadn’t noticed before pierced through the noise from the thunderstorm. A creaking sound… and … smoke? The wax of the candle coating his glove, he rushed up the stairs, his legs shaking, his heart hammering in his chest. It took him half a second to find the source of the flames. He pushed the door of d’Artagnan’s former room.

 

“Oh, God, no, no, no!” He whimpered, tearing out the closest curtain he found.

 

**oooo0000O0000ooo**

**_Aramis_ **

 

       The doors of the _Sainte Chapelle_ closed behind him with a _bang_ which echoed in his head and in the deserted street. He had searched the churches, instinctively seeking the reassurance of God. He retrieved his mare, thinking that he had one last church to check, maybe Athos had already visited it, but he suspected that his friend wouldn’t have the same instinct, churches had never been places where he could find comfort. He mounted with stiff and awkward movements. Naïade stayed still and steady, understanding her master’s difficulty.

       He rode back by the _Pont Saint-Michel_ , the houses built on the narrow bridge were huddled together like sleeping birds on a branch. Aramis had no idea of the hour but the facades were dark. A heavy rain had started falling, turning the dirt into a putrid mud. He checked each side of the streets, his painful eyes scanning walls and doors, windows and gutters. The strong wind tried to blow out the flame of the torch but the sky was now as bright as at dawn because of the incessant streaks of lightning.

       When he left the dark nave of _Saint-Germain_ , Aramis was lost. Not in the streets of Paris, which he knew so well, but lost in his own despair. The lightning struck so close that it made the ground vibrate in a short earthquake. He took a few steps towards a frightened Naïade tethered to a tree opposite to the entrance of the church, but his foot caught in a stone and he fell, the torch dying in a puddle and his beloved hat landing in the gutter in the middle of the street. When he straightened, his uniform was covered in mud. He roared angrily as he felt his nerves abandon him, brandishing a menacing fist at the tumultuous skies. He leant his forehead against Naïade’s saddle and gripped the leather, letting the rain soak his uniform. He tried to concentrate on his breathing but he couldn’t bring in enough air.  He was so caught in his grief that he didn’t heard the sound of hooves approaching him. Naïade shivered and neighed softly.              

 

“Aramis.” Porthos, who had silently dismounted, whispered, laying his warm hand on his friend’s shoulder.

 

       Aramis startled but refused to open his eyes, his forehead still against his horse’s flank.

 

“I … I’m …”

“Hey …” Porthos squeezed slightly.

 

       Aramis, tried to breathe in deeply then he straightened and wiped his face, smearing mud over  his cheeks. He turned around to face Porthos, the torch that his friend held above their heads warming his face. He didn’t have to ask if …

 

“We don’t give up, Aramis. Never.” Porthos said.

 

       His tone was softened by his gesture when he reached for Aramis’ cheek to wip the mud with his thumb.

 

“We don’t give up.” He repeated. “We will find him, I know we will.”

“It’s my fault. I knew ... I should have …”

“What’s done is done.” Porthos answered with a small wink. “Our Captain’s wisdom, remember.”

 

       If he had expected his words to lighten Aramis’ spirit, he was wrong. He watched as his friend’s face fell and something else than rain moistened his eyes.

 

“Come here.” Porthos whispered.

 

       He wrapped his free arm around his friend’s shoulders, drawing him against him, the heavy smoke from the torch swirling around them. Aramis let himself sag against the broad chest for a few seconds, taking comfort in the familiar smell, in the feeling of the rough leather against his cheek, in the calming sound of the heart beating steadily against his ear, before nodding and sniffling.

 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t.” Porthos ordered gently. “Don’t be sorry, just let’s try and find our brothers.”

 

    Aramis nodded again and, with Porthos’ help, he mounted.

 

**oooo0000O0000ooo**

 

**Athos**

 

       He didn’t know how and when his heart started to beat again. The sight which had welcomed him in the abandoned room had suffocated him. It wasn’t only the smoke from the fire which was eating the threadbare rug and inexorably made its way towards d’Artagnan’s hair. It was the image of another brother lying on the floor, bleeding, unresponsive. It was the image of another fire.

       He ignored his first instinct which was to check his young friend’s pulse and he spread the worn out curtain over the growing fire, then he beat the remaining flames with a blanket. The short fight made him breathless and when he fell on his knees beside his friend who laid face down on the dusty floor, his hands were shaking so much that he couldn’t even remove his gloves. He pulled on each finger with his teeth, grunting and cursing.

       He reached for d’Artagnan’s neck but it took him long seconds before he found a pulse. When his fingers felt a weak but too fast beat which he couldn’t confuse with his own pulsing blood, he breathed out a shaky sigh of relief and let his forehead fall on the young man’s shoulder. He then felt how clammy his friend’s skin was, how the fever had taken hold of the battered body. The sickening odour of blood and sweat invaded his nostrils. He took off his jacket and covered d’Artagnan before looking around the room to find something to clean the still  bleeding wound, absentmindedly running a hand through the wet hair, the heat he felt there scaring him.

 

“What have you done, you fool?” He murmured. “Stay here. I must …” He said standing up.

 

       The cause of the fire seemed obvious, a broken bottle of alcohol and the rest of a melted candle. Athos unbuckled his sword’s belt and laid it with his pistol next to the young man, then he went to search the adjacent room where he found two blankets, a few lengths of fabric and two candles. He lit them with his own and put them on the floor to have a better sight of the wound. He wished Aramis was with them.

       He stood up again and went downstairs to search the cupboards, cursing when his fingers met only cobwebs, mice and a few animals with too many legs. He was ready to abandon his quest when he noticed a low trunk in a corner next to the stone sink carved into the wall. Almost praying for luck, he opened it and found an earthenware bottle closed by a cork and a piece of gauze. He used his teeth to pull on the cork and a strong smell of alcohol reached his nostrils awakening a long forgotten need which he silenced quickly.

       When he reached the first step of the stairs he heard a soft whimpering. He ran, almost losing his balance on the landing. When he entered the room, d’Artagnan was clumsily trying to haul himself, his trembling arms refusing to support him properly.

 

“Calm down, you are not alone.” Athos murmured, his warm hand flat on the uninjured shoulder of his friend.

 

       Still on all fours, the young man turned his head towards the voice and blinked.

 

“Ath …”

“Yes, I’m here. Can you lie back and stay still for a moment? I need to clean this wound.”

 

       D’Artagnan was about to comply when his lungs reacted to the smoke he had inhaled and he coughed, harshly, painfully, his throat wheezing, until his arms couldn’t bear his weight. Athos caught him before he hit the hard floor. He struggled to help him to straighten enough to help his lungs, all the while trying not to hurt his wound. Athos managed to make him kneel and lean on his chest, which the young man did with a final cough and a grateful sigh.

 

“I’m so …”

 

       He tried to sit back but Athos stopped him with a hand behind his head, scratching slightly the hot sweaty scalp. They stayed like that for a moment, d’Artagnan trying to control his breathing and Athos trying to control his emotions. Two broken soldiers, alone and helpless. Athos almost snorted at the irony of the situation. Four years spent cheating death every day, every second and just a man, a monster could be the one who would be the end of them.

       D’Artagnan seemed almost asleep, his warm breath warming Athos’ neck, but he knew that he was just gathering his strength and wasn’t surprised at all when the young man pushed him and tried to stand up again. Athos tightened his grip on his neck.

   

“Shh. Don’t move.”

“I want … to … I’m s …”

“Will you stop fighting now?” Athos ordered. “I need to clean this wound.”

 

       When d’Artagnan nodded and stopped fighting, Athos helped him to resume his position on his belly and, retrieving the bottle, he  poured some alcohol onto a piece of fabric and gingerly applied it onto the cut. He was rewarded by a muffled scream and the young man tried to escape his touch.

 

“Don’t. Please.”

“I don’t know how to do it without hurting you.” Athos admitted his voice wobbling as the piece of fabric landed on the floor.

“Can you … p … pour it … directly …on ...”

“It will hurt you even more.”

 

       D’Artagnan shook his head.

 

“Do it. I want to …”

 

       He turned his head to look straight into Athos’ eyes, freezing when he saw his friend’s expression. Even in the low light he could see that Athos was pale, his eyes red from the smoke, from exhaustion and from … Athos averted his gaze, unable to sustain the scrutiny, and rubbed his face with his shoulder. Yes, he was terrified of losing his brother. Yes, he reminded him of another young life which had ended too soon. Yes, he was grieving.

 

“Athos, I’m sorry.” He mumbled reaching out to grab Athos’ hand, and he squeezed with an unexpected strength.

 

       He shivered violently and closed his eyes without releasing his Captain’s hand.

 

“Athos, d … d … do it. I want to go home.”

 

       Athos breathed in deeply and at last poured a cup of alcohol, enough to allow the strong liquid to enter the entire length of the cut. He wiped it then poured again. He felt d’Artagnan’s hand squeeze his fingers in a painful grip.

 

“Just once more. Ready?”

 

       D’Artagnan nodded and endured the burning sensation with his usual courage.

 

“I hope it will be enough. I will wrap these bands of fabric around your torso, but I need you to si …”

 

       The young man breathed out something which could have been a laugh.

 

“I thought you would never ask. Those tiles are icy cold. Help me.”     

 

       Athos helped him to kneel, to stand, then to sit on what was left of the bed. He sat down next to him, working quickly and wrapping him in his own jacket and a blanket.

 

“You should lie on your side and try to rest.”

 

       D’Artagnan obeyed, far too quickly for Athos’ liking and followed his Captain’s movement as the nervous man tried to clean the room, pushing the remnants of the fire and the dirty linens into a corner of the room.

 

“Stop this, Athos.” D’Artagnan whispered but Athos continued his task and didn’t answer.

“Athos!” The young man called, his voice a little stronger. “S… stop moving and come here, y … you … make me dizzy.” He added, his teeth chattering.

 

       Athos froze but refused to turn around.

 

“Athos, p … please …And bring this bottle, I could drink the whole _Seine_.”

 

    He watched as his friend’s shoulders slumped before he straightened and scrubbed at his face again, wiping it with his sleeve. He bent to retrieve the bottle on the floor, put it next to the bed and left the room to  the deafening sound of the thunder.

 

“Oh, Athos!” D’Artagnan sighed before closing his eyes.

 

**oooo0000O0000ooo**

 

       He didn't know how much time had passed when the door creaked on its hinges and d’Artagnan opened his eyes. It took him a few seconds to see properly through the sticky tears veiling his pupils. In the opening, stood Athos, his wet hair plastered on his face, his unlaced shirt clinging to his torso. He was immobile, his eyes unfocused and a hand clutching at his chest. The room was dark -and the thunder was now no more than a distant rumbling- but the moon lit the scene with a bluish shade.

 

“Athos?” He mumbled, barely recognising his own voice.

 

       Athos took a step towards him and it was then that the young man noticed the dark stain blossoming on his Captain’s chest. D’Artagnan tried to stand up but his legs were made of lead, he tried to shout but his tongue was made of wood, he tried to raise his arms but they were made of stone.

 

**_To be continued ..._  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chinon= wine from the Loire Valley


	6. Weep ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, today is it Thursday or Tearsday?
> 
> Thank you for still following me and for your support. ♥♥

_**D’Artagnan** _

  
He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, Athos had disappeared. He stood up, feeling suddenly light, almost floating over the floor. The door opened again and …

  
“D’Artagnan … wake up.”

  
    Athos stood at his side, towering over him, blood dripping from the sickening hole in his chest. D’Artagnan tried to escape but his arms were pinned to the bed. Now, he couldn't see Athos, he could just hear his wheezing breathing. He tried to see where he was but his eyes only met rough boards. The ceiling was slowly lowering, trapping him like in a coffin. He screamed and begged.

 

“D’Artagnan, stop, you will hurt yourself. Please.” A distant voice murmured, somewhere in the background of his feverish mind.

“Noooo … please.” He screamed.

“Stop. Calm down.”

 

    This time his brain understood the order in the words shouted in his ear. He sluggishly opened his eyes and looked around the room which was bathed in a comforting orange glow. The ceiling was … normal. A face came in his field of vision, a pale face, with exhausted bloodshot green eyes, Athos’ face, a very much alive Athos, his hands like vices around d'Artagnan's biceps.

  
“Y … you … are alive.”

“It seems so.” Athos said, his voice uncertain.

“You had …there, you had… ” D’Artagnan whispered, laying his hand where he had seen the blood on Athos’ shirtfront. “And the … boards … the ceiling … it was …”

  
    Athos grabbed the cold fingers and urged d’Artagnan to lie back under the blanket. When the young man tried to struggle, he pushed him gently, guiding him, a hand behind his head.

 

“You … you left.” D’Artagnan stammered, his eyes still unfocused, as he grudgingly lay down on his side left side, in the exact position he had been when Grimaud’s blade had found him.

“I went to check our horses and to fetch a bucket of water.”

“Oh! … I think I fell asleep.”

“You were sound asleep when I came back, probably around thirty minutes ago, and you had a nightmare ... in which I had a role, apparently.” Athos continued, raising a questioning eyebrow.

 

    Athos rearranged the blanket over d’Artagnan’s shoulders.

 

“You should sleep.”                            

  
      He looked around the room and, finding a chair which seemed usable, he brought it next to the bed and sat down heavily. He knew he should send a message to the garrison, but he didn’t know how to do it without leaving his friend alone. After spending years spying on the Spanish troops, delivering messages through the front line, hiding, strategising, fighting… he didn’t know how to reach his comrades barely half a league away from their improvised infirmary. What a perfect Captain!

  
“You should sleep.”

  
      D’Artagnan’s hushed voice startled him. He had thought that the young man was asleep but it seemed that the short rest had helped him to slightly restore his strength.

 

“You are exhausted. You should sleep. At least, come and sit on the bed, not on this chair which will probably,” he coughed and winced as it pulled on his wound.  “Probably break under your weight.”

“Thank you … for the innuendo regarding my weight, I mean.” Athos mumbled.

“You know what I mean.” D’Artagnan replied, moving enough -and wincing in the process-  to leave him some space beside him.

“I … don’t w … I can’t sleep.” Athos admitted, a tremor in his voice.

  
       D’Artagnan coughed again. Athos leant towards him ready to help, but the young man shook his head, eyes closed, sweat glistening on his forehead..

 

“I’m fine, just thirsty. Can … please .. can you ...”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” Athos stood up so abruptly that the chair fell, its legs cracking dangerously.

 

    He came back with the bucket and a wooden ladle.

 

“Sorry, it’s not very …”

 

    D’Artagnan smiled, a tired smile which didn’t really reach his eyes.

 

“I come from a farm.”

  
       He drank gratefully, then he sighed contentedly and glared when Athos laid a hand on his forehead.

  
“You seem less feverish. I think it was the exhaustion and the heat of this awful day.”

‘I feel better … but it hurts. If this cough could stop.” D’Artagnan mumbled.

“It’s the smoke …” Athos said, instinctively sniffling.

 

    The odour of soot and burnt wood was still heady and slightly nauseating. Athos put the chair back on its four legs … well three and a half now…

 

“Mmmh .. . Athos, on the bed, please.” D’Artagnan chided.

“Very well.”

“And sleep.”

“I can’t.” Athos repeated, carefully sitting next to his friend’s head.

“We can talk, then”.

“I have seen children more docile than you at bedtime.” Athos grumbled crossing his arms.

“How many children did you put to bed?” D’Artagnan smiled gently looking up at him through his long hair.

 

    Athos held his breath, memories flooding his mind, memories of things which were long gone and things which had never existed. Children … he could have … if ...

  
“Athos, I’m sorry, it was …” D’artagnan began, gripping his friend’s arm.

“Don’t worry.” Athos reassured him, covering the young man’s hand. “I’m fine.”

 

    D’Artagnan stayed silent for a few minutes. They listened to the sounds outside. The thunder was far away now, still purring contentedly like a satiated cat. Big drops of rain played with the tiles of the roof, a mesmerising staccato numbing the two men’s tired minds. D’Artagnan sat up a little more upright to be almost leveled with Athos. A few grunts and grimaces said how painful it was but Athos let him do it, knowing that he couldn’t fight the stubborn Gascon any more than the young man could fight him.

    He didn’t move when his friend used his shoulder as a support to settle in an awkward position, half sitting, half curling on his side to keep his wound away from the wall, his legs bent, his bony knees against Athos’ thighs. The latter just let him breathe through the pain and waited patiently before asking softly:

 

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why did you hide your wound, why did you hide here?”

“Taking a leaf out of your book, I suppose.” D’Artagnan answered with a soft laugh.

 

    His voice was stronger now, the heat radiating from his body had receded, but the lines and dark shadows Athos noticed around his eyes when he looked down at him showed how much in pain he was.

 

“Not your best idea.” Athos replied, fidgeting with a loose thread of the blanket.

“Why did you hide your wound in Eparcy?”

“We had more urgent problems.” Athos answered in a flat tone.

“So you understand why I did it.” D’Artagnan replied without animosity.

“There is more.”

 

    It was more an understatement than a question. D’Artagnan nodded, swallowing his saliva with difficulty. More, indeed. Too many things and especially this dreadful feeling of loss, of emptiness. The feeling that, with Tréville’s death, he had lost everything and everyone  connecting him to his parents, to his past [*****](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39326653/preview#chapter_6_endnotes) . His mother had died when he was a child, his father had died in his arms six years before, he had no living siblings, no living relatives. He didn’t answer. His throat felt knotted.

 

“Don’t forget that you have friends, great friends, you know.” Athos stated as if reading his mind.

 

    D’Artagnan laughed, a small bitter laugh, and moaned as a burning pain flared through his shoulder blade and spine.

 

“Happy to make you laugh.” Athos murmured, his lips twitching as he looked down at his young friend.

“I said the same words to Porthos when we thought we would die.”

“Oh!”

“I told him that I didn’t want to die, I wasn’t ready. I wanted to see Constance one last time, to hold our children in my arms. I wasn’t ready. I am not ready.”

“And yet, you hid from us and you could have died alone.” Athos murmured. “Why here?”

“I don’t know. I really wanted to go home but … I don’t know how I arrived here. I swear, I don’t know. I just wanted to be well before you all came back. I didn’t want to worry you, to worry Constance. I’m sorry. I … was so … I …”

  
    His voice broke and Athos felt him tremble against him. He briefly laid his hand on his knee, comforting him in his usual discreet clumsy way. He wished he had Porthos’ ability to comfort people, or Aramis’, but his upbringing had forbidden all kinds of physical contacts. He had changed, of course, because escaping Aramis’ fond embraces and Porthos’ crushing hugs was a hard task, but he was still shy regarding physical display of affection. He cursed himself for that. Why did he allow himself to be tactile only when returning from Death’s door?

 

“I swear, Athos.” D’Artagnan repeated straightening enough to look into Athos’ eyes.

 

    Athos nodded, feeling his dry eyes sting suspiciously at the sight of his friend’s sorrow. He stayed silent, waiting for him to continue. He was about to speak when the young man opened his mouth again, leaning more heavily against him. Athos stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles on the uncomfortable bed.

 

“I … He … He knew I was underneath the floor with the little King. He took his time to slip his sword between the boards …slowly … methodically. He enjoyed scaring the child …” He took a deep breath. “Scaring me … He called me a rat … I felt … as helpless as a rat in a trap … After everything we lived through on the battlefields, I was frightened like a trapped animal, like a child, not like a Musketeer, like a child, Athos.” He dug his fingers into Athos’ arm, as if he wanted to emphasise his words. “I was so certain we would be safe there …but … and when the trap opened, I fought, but I … failed ... I failed everyone.”

 

    Athos turned towards him, conveying in one single look all his trust and sincerity.

 

“Don’t. Don’t ever think that everything is your fault.”

“Not everything … but Tréville’s death is.”

“No, Tréville’s death is Grimaud’s fault, Gaston’s fault, not yours.” Athos almost growled.

“If I had been more careful … I … I so wanted you and Constance to be proud of my actions. I so wanted to be proud of myself. All I can do since my return from the front is … making mistakes. I …”

 

    Athos didn’t know how to answer. He knew too well how this creeping guilt worked, eating the most brave men alive. Besides, the level of exhaustion and grief they all experienced increased the power of this guilt.

 

“The King is safe.”

 

    D’Artagnan snorted but it sounded more like a sob and indeed, when Athos looked down at him, the young man had covered his face with his hands. Athos moved swiftly and knelt in front of him, his hands raised towards his friends, but once again he couldn’t find the words or the gestures of comfort.

 

“I … I … don’t know … I … I want to … ” The young man stammered. “It hurts. I want … to …go home.”

 

    Athos gently, delicately, grabbed the young man’s wrists and just as carefully, he took the trembling hands in his. D’Artagnan looked at him through his wet lashes and let his forehead fall on his Captain’s shoulder, his tense fingers escaping his friend’s hold and clutching at his shirt. Athos just laid his hands on his friend’s shoulders, careful not to touch the bleeding wound.

 

“ _Weep,”_   Athos murmured in his ear, “ _weep, heart full of love, youth, and life! Alas, would I could weep like you!”_ **[**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39326653/preview#chapter_6_endnotes)**

 

    Through the sound of the light rain, through the sound of the ragged breath of d’Artagnan, through the sound of their galloping hearts, they didn’t hear the stairs creaking.

 

**oooo0000O0000ooo**

 

**Porthos**

 

“You know why I keep you?”

 

    Porthos and Aramis rode, silent, through the dark streets of Paris with the sole light of the dying torch that Porthos held high above his head. Luckily, the rain was lighter now, no more than a warm drizzle and the thunder had turned its ire against others places, other people.

 

“Porthos, I don’t feel like joking.”

“I keep you because of your brilliant conversation.”

 

    Aramis sighed and Porthos watched sadly as he slumped in his saddle.

 

“I’m sure he is safe, somewhere.” He tried to reassure him, nudging him gently with his fist.

“Anywhere.” Aramis mumbled briskly.

 

    Porthos abandoned the idea of cheering his friend up and continued to scan the streets in which they rode.

 

“Which one?” Porthos asked after a few minutes.

“What?” Aramis raised his head.

  
    They were at a junction of two streets.

 

“ _Rue des Fossoyeurs_ …” Aramis began.

“Where Constance lived. You think he could…”

“Let’s go.” Aramis answered with a renewed energy, urging his mare into a canter.

 

    They arrived in the small square where the dark silhouette of the monumental well stood out on a ground made almost white by the rays of moon piercing through the clouds. Naïade snorted and stomped nervously.

 

“She has sensed something.” Aramis murmured, caressing the soft neck.

“Sensed?”

“Yes, and your horse has reacted too.”

“Perhaps they are just thirsty, or hungry. You know that my big silly beast’s brain is in his stomach.”

“It’s your horse.” Aramis smiled … at last.

 

Aramis ignored Porthos’ fake glare and continued:

 

“No. I mean, when Naïade is thirsty or hungry she just tries to send me over her head.” Aramis explained.

  
    They continued towards the well and Porthos admitted that his usually very placid stallion had an odd behaviour.

 

“Constance’ s house.”Aramis said.

“But it has been closed for years now.”

 

    When they noticed two black horses calmly grazing the wet leaves of the lime tree underneath which they were tethered, the two friends breathed out a relieved sigh and dismounted. They spent a few seconds petting and reassuring their friends’ horses and they added their mounts to the improvised paddock. Then, they entered  the house and let the soft light of the moon guide them.

    When they arrived on the landing they held their breath as they heard muffled sounds coming from d’Artagnan’s former room. Instinctively, they reached for the hilt of their swords, but they realised that the sounds were choked sobs.

    Aramis put his hand on the handle but hesitated. Porthos put his own hand over his, and before pushing he whispered, hoping that his tone was more confident than it sounded to his own ears:

 

“Everything will be fine.”      

 

**_To be continued..._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *reference to the book  
> **quote from The Three Musketeers (Athos comforting a grieving d’Artagnan). Thank you Mr Dumas.


	7. We need help.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three Musketeers helping their fourth but... Athos' grief, Porthos' misgivings and Aramis' very present past don't help.
> 
> You will have to check the notes at the end of this chapter to understand a French pun.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> ♥♥

**_Aramis_ **

 

        The sight made him freeze on the threshold. He couldn’t see d’Artagnan’s face, buried in the folds of Athos’ shirt, but when the latter raised his head so abruptly that Aramis feared for his vertebrae, his expression was so devastated that … _Please, God, no, please_!

 

“Thanks God, Aramis, you are here.” Athos whispered in a weak hoarse voice.

 

        He should have stepped into the room, he should have thrown himself to his friends’ side but he couldn’t. His legs were so heavy. He had failed them all. Once more he had let someone die. Athos had an unreadable expression, his right eyebrow raised in a silent question, a circumflex accent standing out on his pale forehead and Aramis stared at him, unable to talk, unable to move. Porthos pushed him sideways with an irritated grunt to reach the bed.

 

“How is he?” He murmured calmly, kneeling next to Athos and laying a hand on d’Artagnan’s neck.

“How is _he_?” Athos asked with a nod towards Aramis.

 

_Oh! Me?_

 

“Aramis? Are you hurt?”

 

 _This voice._ D’Artagnan’s voice, raspy, muffled, but d’Artagnan’s voice. Then another voice, both amused and irritated.

 

“Aramis, are you waiting for leaves to grow on your arms? Have you taken roots?”

 

_Porthos._

 

        The third voice had a commanding tone which awoke him.

 

“Aramis, we need help. Now!”

 

_Athos. Captain Athos!_

 

“I … I thought …” He stammered, shaking himself and running a hand through his muddy wet hair.

 

        D’Artagnan was looking at him and it seemed that he had been looking at him for a while given his worried expression. The young man wasn’t at his best but he was alive. _Alive!_

 

“You … you are not …”

“Not dead.” D’Artagnan replied managing a small smile, disentangling himself from Athos’ hold and wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, Athos.” He whispered receiving a deep nod from his Captain who sat back at the foot of the bed.

 

        D'Artagnan winced and grimaced and groaned but he managed to straighten.

 

“I’m not dead but I think you will have to work your magic ...” He said with an apologetic look.

“The boy …”

 

“Porthos!” D’Artagnan exclaimed sending a dark look at his friend.

       

Even Athos’ lips twitched. He had missed those exchanges between his friends and for half a second it alleviated the grief which had crushed them.

 

“The Gascon …,  “ Porthos resumed with a wink. “would like to have one of your beautiful embroideries on his back because our dear friend Grimaud mistook him for a rat.”

 

        Aramis gasped and brought a hand to his mouth, taking a step back.

 

“Aramis?” Porthos whispered.

 

        Rats … He had seen rats years before… rats crawling in the snow, rats biting, rats squeaking, rats chasing ravens much bigger than them to have the best part of bodies …of dead friends. He had tried to frighten them, with a stick, screaming until his voice abandoned him and now they were back, undulating dark furr in the corners of the room. He had to protect his friends, his fallen …

 

“Aramis!”

 

_Athos…_

 

        He stepped back and when he hit the doorframe he let himself slide down against it.

 

“Porthos, what’s happening? Athos? Did we say something wrong?”

 

_D’Artagnan…_

 

        Aramis wrapped his arms around his bent legs and tried to silence the world, silence the memories. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, on his blood which he almost felt, if not heard, flowing through his veins. He knew that his friends were watching him. Judging him …

        Hands on his shoulders, warm breath on his temple.

 

“Aramis, calm down, you just have to breathe.” A rumbling deep voice murmured in his ear.

 

        A hand on his nape, bringing his forehead against a shoulder, long silky hair brushing the side of his neck, smell of sweat, dry blood and leather.

 

“Shh. We need you. Calm down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Athos chided gently. “You are back with us now?”

 

        Aramis nodded against Athos’ shoulder before pushing him rather abruptly almost making him fall. He was ashamed of his own childish behaviour, still shivering from the images his mind had brought back. His friends watched, amazed, as, like a curtain is drawn back over a precious painting whose sight could overwhelm the beholder or betray the artist’s deepest secrets,  a marble mask of professional concentration and determination hid Aramis' emotions. He took in a deep shuddering breath and clenching his fists, he strode towards the bed.

  


**_Porthos_ **

 

        Porthos shook his head and held a hand to Athos who stood up with a grunt. They looked at each other recognising in the other’s eyes the worry they felt for their friends.

 

“Roll over.”

 

        Aramis’ voice didn’t hold its usual warmth. D’Artagnan looked at him with a frown but  obeyed immediately. Porthos stood behind Aramis, watching each movement, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth a grim line, a mixture of worry and anger in his dark eyes. Athos squeezed his elbow before kneeling next to the headboard, grimacing when Aramis prodded at the wound with nothing of his usual delicacy.

 

“Porthos, you are blocking the light!” Aramis exclaimed harshly.

 

        Porthos and Athos looked at each other again and d’Artagnan turned his head slightly, trying to understand what was happening over his back. Porthos stepped sideways, enough to see Aramis’ profile, and, noticing that even like that the light wasn’t bright enough, he took a candle and brought it closer, earning an irritated sigh from Aramis. As used as he was to Aramis’ contradictions, Porthos couldn’t understand how his best friend’s mind worked. His own mind was as straight as a bridge. One way, two sides. Porthos chose one option or the other but he always moved on, never losing sight of his goal. Aramis’ mind was a forest with a maze of paths, some lit by a blinding sun, some dark as a well, some pleasantly shadowy and Aramis… Aramis always stood at a junction, uncertain, balancing between light and darkness, weighing the good and evil, caught in the brambles of his conscience....

        A moan escaping d’Artagnan’s mouth made Porthos jump and the flame flickered, a shower of melted wax landing on the floor and Aramis’ arm.

 

“Can't you just stop moving?” Aramis hissed between clenched teeth.

 

        A heavy silence followed. Porthos froze, d’Artagnan turned towards him a little more, his neck at an uncomfortable angle, holding his breath and Athos, in his usual quiet and discreet way, raised a calming hand. His eyes met his friend’s and he held the anxious and angry gaze.

 

“How bad is it?” He asked gently, his voice barely more than a raspy whisper while his fingers gingerly closed around Aramis’ wrist.

 

        Aramis looked at him with an obvious question in his dark shining eyes. _How bad is…_

 

_Oh!_

 

“Aramis, my back, does it need stitches or … worse?” d’Artagnan asked wincing at the thought of a white-hot blade on his already burning skin.

 

        A few seconds passed, then a shaky laugh left Aramis’ mouth.

 

“Nothing, Charles…”

 

Porthos snickered expecting an outraged rebuke from d’Artagnan who hated being called by his first name, but nothing came. Maybe the young man was too tired to notice or he was relieved to see their friend back with them.

 

“Nothing at all. I will just apply a substantial amount of honey then I will bandage it.”

“Oh no, please no honey. I will feel even more sticky than I have felt since we left the.....”

“I think the boy prefers a white-hot blade.” Porthos laughed, voicing d’Artagnan’s earlier fear and interrupting the course of his thoughts. Thoughts that none of them wanted to have for now.

 

        A throaty sound from Athos surprised them. It was the closest to a laugh he could utter but it relaxed them all.

 

“Let me fetch my honey salve.” Aramis said already running down the stairs.

“Flying from _bourdon **[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39471529/preview#chapter_7_endnotes) **_ to bee in less than a second, this one.” Porthos laughed quietly, a laugh still tinged with bitterness.

 

        Athos shook his head, his long hair swaying like a curtain which barely managed to hide a fond small smile. As soon as Aramis had stood up, Athos had kept his hand mid-air. He looked at it with a frown as if wondering how to use it now. When d’Artagnan stiffened, closed his eyes and moaned under the attack of a wave of pain, Athos laid it on the young man’s shoulder, unconsciously moving his thumb over the sweaty skin, his eyes still fixed on the dark staircase where Aramis had disappeared.

  


**oooo0000O0000ooo**

 

**_D’Artagnan_ **

 

        He awoke with a gasp, his throat dry, his forehead sweating where it was pressed against something warm... leather... A uniform? He was on his left side, his nose buried in something rough smelling vaguely of soot and mould … the bed, then. A hand, cool on his skin, made a few slow circles on his back before retreating. Opening eyelids which seemed glued, was something that he was loath to do but at the same time he felt a strong need to see, to recognise his surroundings, to check that they were still here with him. He cursed his feverish state which made him weak and childish. The warm leather moved against his forehead.

 

“Do you want to change position, are you in pain?”

 

        D’Artagnan growled a response whose meaning was lost to Athos. The young man felt the hand again on his skin.

 

“Do you want to drink something?”

“Mgnnnn.”

“Well, I will try to translate this.” Athos whispered with a smile.

“Wgnna… t.... sssit …mmhh.”

“Perhaps you should open your eyes before…”

 

        D’Artagnan sighed and raised a hand to his eyes but a pain that his feverish sleep had made him forget for a few blissful hours, elicited a moan. When Athos moved and left the edge of the narrow bed where it seemed that he had spent the beginning of the night, the young man lost his balance and could have fallen head first over the bed frame if Athos’ voice hadn’t warned him.

 

“Don’t move…”

 

        D’Artagnan stopped struggling with himself and waited patiently. His eyes still firmly closed, he listened to the sounds, water sloshing in the basin, pots clinging on the table, the familiar rustle of Athos’ leathers… until a cool wet cloth covered his eyes.

 

“It will help.” Athos said gently, a hand at the back of the young man’s skull, the other keeping the cloth in place.

“How do you know about …”

 

        Athos snorted.

 

“Long experience of difficult awakenings.”

 

        The cloth and the hand disappeared and d’Artagnan was surprised to be able to open his eyes easily. Athos helped him to sit up, folded a blanket to put between his back and the wall and made him lean his head against the moist stone.

 

“How are you feeling?” He asked then before suddenly smiling, a fond smile reaching his eyes for the first time in hours, days.

“What?”

“You have the folds of my uniform printed on your forehead.”

 

        D’Artagnan smiled and, Athos wasn’t sure, blushed… Twenty three years old, a married warrior but to Athos’ eyes he was still the fearless boy who had wanted to kill him and to save him at the same time, years before…

 

“So, how are you feeling?”

“Sore… but better.”

       

D’Artagnan frowned suddenly.

 

“Where are the others? How long did I sleep?”

“First question: taking care of the horses and … talking, I suppose. Second question: two hours.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I thought …” D’Artagnan stopped, thinking. “Ath …”

 

        At the same time, Athos whispered…

 

“D’Arta …”

 

        They laughed quietly. Athos sat down again next to his friend who shifted to leave him more space.

 

“Athos, I’m sorry. I should have …” D’Artagnan began in a wobbly dry voice.

“Yes, you should have…” Athos interrupted handing him a cup of water.

 

        D’Artagnan noticed then that Athos had found a few useful things in the house. Two chipped cups, a jug, more rags.

 

“You don’t even know what I was about to say …”

“That you should have told us about your wound, maybe.” Athos said softly, leaning his shoulder against his young friend’s  in a brotherly gesture.

“And I shouldn’t have come here to hide in this ruin… I’m sorry.”

“And you shouldn’t have tried to ruin it even more by burning it and you shouldn’t have frightened me… us... to death … but … apologies accepted.” Athos murmured squeezing his friend’s knee. “My turn …I … knew something was wrong… I knew you were wounded.... I didn’t know where or how but I knew ...and I fled…”

“You what?” D’Artagnan asked bewildered. “When?”

 

        Athos sighed and bent his legs to circle them with his arms. D’Artagnan noticed then that he had taken off his boots probably in order to walk silently across the room while he slept.

 

“When we … on the road … I told you that I had to prepare the … to warn the palace … But I think that … deep down, it was a pretext.”

 

        D’Artagnan felt him tremble so he leant a little more heavily against him. Athos continued.

 

“We have lost … we … we are all orphans… again … in a way.” His voice broke slightly on the word _orphan_. “I have been selfish, I couldn’t bear to ride beside his body, I had to…”

“To grieve alone…” D’Artagnan finished. “To hide your …”

“I have nothing to hide.” Athos replied harshly.

 

        D’Artagnan froze and slowly moved away from his friend but Athos gripped his wrist.

 

“Please, don’t… You don’t understand…”

“You think I don’t understand this feeling ?” D’Artagnan asked a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“No, I mean …” Athos began, squeezing his friend’s wrist even more forcefully. “I mean that … Oh, God, I can’t find the words…”

 

        D’Artagnan covered his fingers with his right hand, his breath hitching when the movement pulled on his wound. Athos swallowed convulsively and looked at the ceiling. D’Artagnan squeezed his fingers one last time before letting go and Athos used his now free hand to cover his eyes and frantically rub at them. His friend watched him with an increasing anxiety, wishing Porthos were here with his rough comforting words and gestures, or Aramis with his soft velvety voice and his understanding eyes. He wanted to help, to say something, but his own grief threatened once more to suffocate him. Oh! How he understood Athos! How he understood the feeling of loss, of emptiness, when in his mind, Tréville’s face had his father’s features and the memory of both their deaths hurt in the same way; when his heart told him that he could have saved them, both of them; when his heart told him that he had failed, even if a small part of his mind told him that he could have done nothing, this part of his mind which had been healed by his friends through the years he had spent with them.

 

“We are alone, you don’t have to hide them from me …” He tried hesitantly.

“Hide what?” Athos snorted bitterly. “I have nothing to hide ... I wish I had …”

 

        D’Artagnan shivered at the realisation. Athos wanted to grieve, wanted his body to expel all this sorrow, all this pain, all these memories.

 

“You are tired, you should sleep.”

“I … just … “

“Please, lie down. There is enough room for two.”

 

        Athos stood up abruptly and went to the window, leaning heavily on the frame, his forehead hitting the broken pane, once, twice before he suddenly admitted...

 

“No … I can’t.”

 

        With a grimace, d’Artagnan managed to stand up and he joined his friend, his right arm curled against his belly, his hand tucked in his belt. The thick layer of honey, a present from Aramis, had started to melt underneath the bandage and made each movement increasingly uncomfortable. Staying barely a foot behind Athos, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure that, in his state, his captain would appreciate a physical contact so he just waited, a reassuring presence. Had Athos even heard him approach? He wasn’t certain, until the man spoke.

 

“I can’t sleep. I tried when you were asleep, but …”

“Try again, please, you look …”

 

        D’Artagnan stopped, because he couldn’t find the right adjective to describe Athos. He simply looked dead on his feet, but he couldn’t use -or even think of- such an expression, but it was Athos’ reaction which startled him and made him freeze.The man turned around as if he had had no idea of his friend’s presence until this moment. His wide clear eyes showed so much sadness that d’Artagnan felt his own sorrow come back with even more strength. It had always been here, of course, somewhere, but he had unconsciously put it aside, too overwhelmed by his physical pain, then, selfishly basking in the warmth of the friendship which had surrounded him, in spite of the obvious tension between his friends. His mind had been too tired to try to understand what was happening between Porthos and Aramis, too tired to try to understand Athos’ suffering, but now, he had to reverse the roles. He had to try and help his friends, at least Athos, because he knew the other two well enough to assume that their apparent disagreement wouldn’t last until morning. He raised his left hand towards Athos, but stopped mid air. Invading Athos’ space wasn’t a good move.

 

“If you can’t sleep, then, rest. Just lie down or sit somewhere… well, not in the chair, it’s too dangerous… but…”

“Go to bed.” Athos cut him trying and -failing- to sound authoritarian.

 

        D’Artagnan wished he could have crossed his arms over his chest to give more force to his next sentence.

 

“I will go back to bed as soon as you agree to lie down too. I want to go home and I need to rest before leaving this ruin, so…”

 

        Athos stared, as rigid as a statue and as if they were made of stone, his eyes were empty and unseeing, as if his friend, standing so close to him, was no more than a veil of mist. D’Artagnan waited patiently, even if his wound hurt in spite of the whole pot of honey which leaked from underneath the bandage, even if his legs shook from exhaustion, even if his eyes burnt from… everything. Athos took a step backward and when he hit the wall behind him, he leant heavily against the dusty crumbling plaster. D'Artagnan took a step forward, gingerly, his dark eyes never leaving the pale irises.

 

“Tell me.” He tried gently.

“I … I can’t … I… don’t know how .. I…”

 

         His voice was barely audible. D’Artagnan took one more step towards hims. Athos flinched but couldn’t recoil, he just lowered his gaze, waiting. He didn’t have to wait too long. His friend put a hand under his elbow, gently and when Athos didn’t escape, he guided him towards the bed.

 

“Really, Athos, I need to sit down for a moment. Let’s talk on this … vestige of a bed.”

 

        He was surprised when Athos didn’t resist, sat down beside him with an exhausted sigh and started talking, his words scattered like a handful of pebbles.

 

“I … just … can’t … can’t close ... my … my eyes.” [*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611815/chapters/39471529/preview#chapter_7_endnotes)*

“But why ?”

“I ... “ He stopped, frowning, thinking. “The images I see.”

 

        It was a whisper, a dry sob, an admission full of shame and despair. D’Artagnan stayed quiet for a while, then brushing his hand against his friend’s arm, he murmured.

 

“I’m here.”

 

_**To be continued ...** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *avoir le bourdon : to brood/ to mope  
> bourdon=drone  
> **reference to my other story “He hasn’t touched a drop.”


	8. Open your door.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments. 
> 
> Enjoy a few minutes with each of our favourite horsemen.
> 
> ♥♥♥

**_Porthos_ **

 

Aramis had literally flown to leave the room and bring back his medical kit and a leather pouch containing his mysterious potions. First, seeing him behave like a worker bee had amused Porthos. He had let him do his work, watching him consciously apply an excessive amount of honey over d’Artagnan’s wound and then bandage it with a long band of clean white cloth, immune to the writhing of the young man as his long fingers tickled him in the process. Aramis had put on his costume of field medic but Porthos knew him too well to be fooled by the role he played. Even his smile was a lie.   He finished his task with efficient mechanical gestures -perhaps just a little more delicate than previously- then, without more than a “sleep well, don’t move too much”, he had left the room.  Porthos sighed defeatedly. D’Artagnan’s eyes had already closed and, soothed by the absent-minded circles of Athos’ thumb over his back, he had let himself be carried away by another restless feverish sleep.

 

“Go after him.” Athos murmured after a moment.

“No.” Porthos answered in the same hushed tone, but with an underlying anger.

“Porthos.” Athos chided gently in the same tone he would have used with a child.

“I have done everything I could since …”

“I know, but …”

“He doesn’t need me. He wants to hide, then, I will let him do it.” Porthos replied harshly.

 

D’Artagnan groaned in his sleep and Porthos came to the foot of the bed. Laying a hand on the young man’s ankle, he mumbled a few words of comfort which seemed to reach the muddled mind as the Gascon sighed and his breath became calm again.

 

“He needs you, Porthos. It’s not easy for him to open his door, even if he feels trapped inside his own prison.”

 

Porthos snorted.

 

“Says the man who has read his father’s whole library before he was fifteen. You said ‘go after him’ it was enough for me, you know.” Porthos said bitterly, immediately regretting his tone.

“Porthos, go to him.” Athos repeated with a indulgent smile.

“Is it an order?” Porthos asked, his voice much more gentle.

“It is. Go. I don’t think our patient will flee again.”

 

Porthos felt fatigued and heavy as he climbed down the creaking stairs. The front door was ajar and the moon lit the street, giving the wet leaves the shades of tarnished silver. He didn’t notice Aramis at once so, when a muffled voice came from somewhere near his feet, he almost jumped. 

 

“It’s not right.” The voice said.

 

Porthos looked down and saw his friend, huddled in the corner of the wall, behind the abandoned barrel and the torch which the storm had managed to blow out.

 

“What are you doing with your backside in the mud?”

“Very observant and... elegant.” Aramis huffed.

 

Porthos wasn’t elegant as he gripped his friend’s elbow and made him stand. Aramis winced as the movement awoke the pain in his sore muscles. Porthos shook him like a branch and made him face him.

 

“Can you open your door, now?” He growled angrily.

“My … my door?” Aramis asked surprised. “Which door?”

“Ask our Captain.”

“May I ask what you are talking about, Porthos?”

“A metaphor. Is it the right word? Athos says that you are in your own prison and you can’t open your own door. Something literary like that… In fact, it doesn’t sound the same in my mouth…” Porthos finished with the pout of a child trying to understand the conversation of the adults.

“Oh, Porthos, I’m sorry.” Aramis smiled reaching for his friend’s shoulder. “I should have …”

“You should have…” Porthos snickered. “You always have a long list of  _ should haves _ . Can’t you just stop being complicated?”

“I think it’s too late for that, my friend.” Aramis murmured, his hand heavier on Porthos’ shoulder.

“So, just … tell me.” Porthos tried gently.

“There is nothing to tell. Nothing more than all the things you already know and… feel.”

“Your behaviour in the room…”

“Exhaustion, bad memories, grief… I told you, all the things you know and feel. Perhaps I’m just weaker than you … but I … usually hide it … better?”

 

It was a question to which he didn’t expect an answer. They all knew the actor Aramis, always hiding his tumultuous dark thoughts, his grief and pain, behind sarcasm,  flirtatious manners and casual attitude. Porthos realised that he had rarely seen him cry like he had cried over Tréville’s body. Aramis let his hand slide down Porthos’ arm to squeeze his hand with a sad sigh.

 

“Why did you say  _ it’s not right _ ? What is it which is not right?” Porthos asked in a low voice.

“Oh, that… “

“Yes, that.”

“I think d’Artagnan should be with his wife.”

“But she isn’t at the garrison!” Porthos exclaimed.

“She wasn’t but maybe now…” Aramis began while reaching for his horse’s reins.

“What are you doing?” Porthos asked, slightly exasperated by his friend’s agitation.

“I will go and see where she is.”

“Alone?”

“Why not?”

“ _ Why not _ , he asks …  _ why not _ .” Porthos repeated rolling his eyes in disbelief.

 

Aramis was already on Naïade’s back and Porthos reached for the reins.

 

“It’s dark.” Porthos insisted, looking up at the clouds rolling over the now high moon.

 

Aramis tugged at the reins.

 

“It’s not right, Porthos. He needs her.”

“At least, let me come with you.”

“Stop talking to me as if I was an invalid or a simpleton, Porthos.” Aramis replied sharply, his voice unsteady.

“I don’t …”

“You do.”

“Why are you so angry?” Porthos asked, knowing perfectly well that this anger hid a deep grief.

“I need to go.” Aramis answered and turned his horse’s head towards the dark city.

“Stay safe, my friend.” Porthos murmured to the darkness and the fading thunder of Naïade’s hooves.

 

**oooo0000O0000ooo**

 

**_D’Artagnan_ **

 

The soft moaning slowly awoke him from a deep sleep. First, he thought that it was his own voice, strange idea but he had suffered so much during the past hours that it could have been him moaning in his sleep. He was in an odd state, barely awake, not really asleep, this blissful feeling when reality is a distant concept, when the body is numb enough to ignore all the aches, when the shutters of memory are still firmly closed just letting a few blurred images filter. Reality hit him in the form of a sharp elbow meeting his forehead.

 

“Ouch.” His voice came as raspy as if he had swallowed a cup of sand.

 

He tried to open his eyes but it was difficult and, this time, no cool wet cloth, no gentle hand, no soft comforting voice came to help him. He tried to rub at his heavy eyelids and he almost cried in pain… He had used his right hand and it wasn’t his best idea.

 

“ _ Morbleu _ , it hurts.” He cursed under his breath.

 

Another movement at his side and another muffled cry. He tried to sit up using his left arm to prop himself up and opened his eyes.

 

“Athos.” He whispered when he saw his friend sprawled beside him, half in, half out of the bed.

 

The man had his face buried in the blanket which d’Artagnan had previously used as a pillow, his hair was spread around his head, his tangled sweaty strands like seaweeds and his fingers clutched at the bedframe hard enough to make his knuckles look almost white in spite of the dim light.

 

“Athos, wake up...” D'Artagnan began in a soft voice.

 

He didn’t feel like being hit again by a writhing Athos caught in God knew which awful nightmare. God … and d’Artagnan knew. Athos had talked about images and the young man guessed what kind of images it could be. When he moved again to reach his friend, using his right hand out of habit, d’Artagnan noticed that the pain in his shoulder blade and along his ribs had considerably decreased. Aramis had turned him into a human gingerbread which had made him curse the man, but it seemed that it was a miraculous recipe. His mind felt more aware, his ideas clearer, his skin didn’t burn any longer. He knelt on the narrow bed, mimicking his Captain’s stance from a few hours earlier -how many, he couldn’t tell- and laid his hand on Athos’ back. He cringed when his fingers met muscles so tense and cold that they seemed to be made of stone. He tried to shake him but Athos continued to moan in his sleep. 

 

“Athos, wake up please.” He repeated.

 

He stroked a few strands away from Athos’ face. The Captain’s features were tense and there was a deep crease between his tightly shut eyes. The young man couldn’t tell if the moisture covering the pale skin was due to tears or sweat or both. Seeing this strong noble man so vulnerable made d’Artagnan’s heart ache. He was almost ashamed, he had no right to witness this intense sorrow but he knew he had to do something to help. He promised himself to lie to Athos if necessary. He would gently try to help him to leave this dark world of ghosts and memories but he would never tell him how broken he had seen him, how fragile the Captain had felt under his hand. He hesitated, then, noticing that his light touch seemed to calm his friend he repeated it, gently, and almost shyly, threading his fingers through the sweaty hair. Suddenly, Athos gasped and opened his eyes. Wide bleary frightened eyes.

 

“D’Ar …”

“Shh… Everything is fine.” D’Artagnan calmed him, quickly removing his hand from his friend’s head.

 

Athos sat up, breathing heavily and leant his head against the wall with a sigh, avoiding his friend’s inquisitive look.

 

“Nightmare?” D’Artagnan asked rather calmly, trying to hide his worry. 

 

Athos finally looked at him. 

 

“Why did you let me sleep? I didn’t want to sleep.” He growled.

 

D’Artagnan bowed his head.

 

“I’m sorry, but … I was ...”

“I told you I didn’t want to sleep.” 

 

D’Artagnan looked up at the harsh tone. Athos had the same expression as Aramis, a mixture of despair and anger, his green eyes the colour of a stormy sea. The Captain stood up abruptly and took his previous position in front of the window, his forehead against the cool pane, his fingers digging into the fragile wood.

 

“I’m sorry, I was asleep…” D’Artagnan whispered in a shaky voice, his eyes still lowered. “Why are you so angry?”  He asked in a small voice. “I was asleep, Athos I ...” And again it was the shy boy speaking, pleading, trying to explain his faults, he cursed himself for it, but he couldn’t help...

 

Athos didn’t answer but seemed to stop breathing at the young man’s words. He turned around and headed towards the door making his friend gasp.  _ Don’t go, please _ . 

Neither of them expected the ceiling chandelier to intervene in their ‘duel’ so, when Athos’ skull met the heavy metal with a loud  _ clang, _ there was a stunned silence. D’Artagnan froze holding his breath, Athos froze frowning.

 

“Ouch. I should …” D’Artagnan began, standing up like a spring.

 

He was interrupted by a sound which would have gone unnoticed coming from anyone else, but which, coming from Athos, could almost be called a laugh.

 

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” The man murmured.

_ “I _ am sorry. I should have warned you. I didn’t think it was still here, I didn’t notice.” D’Artagnan said with a tentative smile. “Is it painful?”

 

Athos came back to the bed and sat down heavily, rubbing his scalp and shaking his head.

 

“I’m sorry.” He said again gripping his friend’s wrist to make him sit next to him.

 

They stayed like that for a moment, shoulder against shoulder, reassured by the other’s warmth. They were quiet and the anger had left Athos. D’Artagnan, who felt it immediately, breathed more easily. If he had the choice between being the target of Athos’ anger and being Grimaud’s rat again, he would choose the second option. He would never admit it, but when Athos’ eyes became dark with a barely pent-up anger, he was no more than the small boy receiving his father’s reprimand, this child who wanted the floor to open under his feet and engulf him. Luckily, Athos didn’t notice his small huff. He felt so stupid, the famous d’Artagnan, the married musketeer, the warrior … he was afraid of a mere stare ...

 

“I hope Aramis hasn’t used all he had in his secret pouch for you.” Athos said rubbing his head again with a wince.

“Speaking of Aramis, don’t you think that they should be back now?”

 

A pair of heavy boots in the stairs answered them and Porthos came in, his dark eyes blazing. His friends looked up at him quizzically.

 

“The stubborn mule just left.” He growled throwing his fist in the crumbling plaster.

  
  


**oooo0000O0000ooo**

 

**_Constance_ **

 

      She looked at the child sleeping peacefully in a bed ten times too big for his frail figure, the carved ebony bed posts looking like the pillars of an oriental temple or  a mausoleum.The thought made her shiver. The boy’s blond hair shone with the golden reflections of the candles. After such a stressful day, sleep had eluded him for a long time and neither Constance's stories or Sylvie's hushed voice singing nursery rhymes of her childhood had managed to calm him. He didn’t understand the adults’ world, the tears, the fears, the hiding, the whispering. He knew something had happened, something serious, he had called for his father, for his friend the “good minister”, for his mother. Constance had almost broken down because hiding Tréville’s death to the child was worse than having to explain it. Maybe, saying it, putting it into words, would have loosened the chains which suffocated her. She still couldn’t believe that this generous noble man, a father figure to so many people had disappeared from the world of the living. She was an orphan, again. It made her feel like a little girl, made her feel even more strongly the fact that she wasn’t a mother. 

The child’s wooden horses lay on their flanks abandoned on the floor and it made Constance even more anxious. She was tempted to stand up and put the fallen beasts and the knights back onto their legs.   
The Queen had given them two thick soft mattress where they could sleep but they were too worried. At the beginning they had talked, softly, exchanging their worry but now they even avoided the other's gaze, knowing perfectly well what they would see.   
The official governess of the young king had all but fled the room with a look of utter outrage when the boy had screamed and clutched at Sylvie and Constance' s hands when the time had come for him to go sleep. The two young women were his companions of adventure and grief and he wasn't ready to let them leave his side.   
The child moaned in his sleep and Sylvie, who sat in an armchair, her head against the headboard, gently stroked the Royal head.  
Constance looked at her then. Something had changed in the young woman’s features. Her skin almost radiated with a new light which had nothing to do with the flames of the chandeliers, her lips were different, more full, sometimes curling in a dreamy half smile. She often bent her head on her right shoulder and in those moments her eyes looked at something no one else could see. _Love?_ Constance thought, but... no, it wasn't only that.  
When the young king stopped wriggling and moaning, when the feather like breathing became even again, Sylvie sat back in the comfortable armchair. Her hair fell around her face in a dark cascade caressing her smooth skin. She raised a hand to remove a strand which was over her mouth and let it fell sleepily onto her apron. Not onto her apron, Constance noticed amazed, onto her belly where her fingers undulated gently.  
  
_Oh!_  
  
Sylvie hadn't noticed her friend's scrutiny.  Her mind was back in another world. To Constance's eyes, she was a Madonna like the ones she had seen in churches. Those wooden statues which centuries of hands thanking and worshiping had polished.  
She was so lost in her contemplation that she didn't notice the dark eyes fixed on her.  
  
"Constance?" Sylvie asked stunned by the admirative blue eyes staring at her.  
  
Constance stayed silent, averting her gaze sheepishly. She smoothed the folds of her skirt and sighed. She wanted to say something, she wanted to know, to congratulate but ... but was it true? Would her question be welcome? And ... and there was something more shameful bothering her... She felt jealous... not really jealous... just envious... So many years trying, waiting, so many years of disappointment, so many years feeling dry and empty.

  
  
"Constance? Are you well?" 

  
  
Sylvie's soft low voice made her leave her tumultuous thoughts. She looked up at the young woman and asked this vague enough question:

  
  
"Does he know?"   
  
"Sorry?"   
  
"Athos, does he know?"

  
  
She felt that she shouldn't insist but now that she had started the conversation she couldn't step back whatever the consequences were.

  
  
"That I love him? I hope so." Sylvie answered with a silent laugh, her eyes mischievous. 

  
  
Constance laughed, a short uneasy laugh. It was Sylvie who kindly helped her.

  
  
"No, he doesn't know." She said with a gentle smile.

  
  
Constance felt herself blush deeply. 

  
  
"I'm sorry Sylvie, I shouldn't..."   
  
"Don't worry. Soon it will become visible, but … how did you guess?"

  
  
Constance thought of an explanation but couldn't find any except the ones which would  make her sound like a fool or bother Sylvie.

  
  
"You should tell him."   
  
"No, not yet... He has other matters to attend to and I don't want him to be uselessly worried and after what happened today..."   
  
"It would be a balm to his broken heart. Tell him, Sylvie."   
  
"Constance, please. Give me -us- some time. Later. When everything is ..." She stopped, a superstitious reflex keeping her from continuing.   
  
"I understand." Constance murmured, deeply convinced that she didn't really understand.

  
  
She felt her eyes sting and stood up to rearrange the beautiful white embroidered counterpane over the little King. She thought that it would hide her nervousness but she knew that she had failed when Sylvie's perfume - a mixture of verbena and cinnamon- enveloped her. The young woman had silently come behind her and laid her hands on Constance's shoulders. The latter exhaled a shaky sigh when the contact of Sylvie's cool fingers miraculously alleviated the weight which was threatening to make her crumble.

  
  
"You should rest." She murmured in her ear, rubbing her friend's arms up and down.   
  
"No, I'm strong I can..."   
  
"Of course you are strong, Constance, you are a Musketeer but even ..." She paused to think of a good example."Even Porthos needs to sleep, you know." 

  
  
There was a fond smile in her voice. Constance tried to breathe deeply, looking up, her eyes losing themselves in the darkness of the painted coffered ceiling.

  
"I'm scared Sylvie." She admitted at last.   
  
"I know." 

  
  
Her warm breath ruffled the auburn locks which had escaped Constance's chignon .

  
  
"I wish we were at the garrison. It's my place... And..."   
  
"And you are worried about him. I know."   
  
"If ..."   
  
"If something had happened we would know. Athos knows where we are. If none of them came it's because, as usual, they are together.  _ Inséparable _ , remember." Sylvie concluded guiding Constance to sit next to her on one of the mattresses.   
  
"Try to sleep. Just a moment."   
  
"But you are..."   
  
"... not ill." Sylvie finished, delicately removing a wild strand from Constance's eyes. "Now, sleep. I will wake you if I need you."   
  
  


**oooo0000O0000ooo**

  
**_Sylvie_ ** ****  
  
She looked around the room. The candles had burnt low now and she could barely distinguish the shapes of the furniture. The little King hadn't woken up and slept with a peaceful smile on his pale lips though a light frown on his forehead made him look older. He lay on his back his small fists on each side of his chubby face, like a baby in a crib except that he was in the bed of a King and soon he would have the responsibilities of a King.   
  
The clock ticking on the mantelpiece disappeared in the darkness of the room. Sylvie tried to squint but she couldn't see the clock hands. How much time had passed since they had been made the temporary governesses of the Royal child? She couldn't tell.    
Leaning on the wall, she tried to ease the pain in her back. She could have stood up, at least to check the hour, but it would have meant waking up Constance whose head was cushioned in her lap. First the proud Madame d’Artagnan had curled on the mattress like an exhausted cat, sleeping restlessly, sometimes trembling, sometimes whimpering, but when Sylvie had seen two tears running down her pale cheeks, she had guided her to rest her head on her lap, surprisingly, without waking her. Since then, Constance slept peacefully, calmed by the gentle movements of Sylvie's slender fingers through her hair.   
  
A bell rang somewhere in the city. Sylvie counted ... Two. She sighed. There were still at least three hours before dawn, still three hours to keep watch alone. However, she didn't feel alone. The small life growing in her body occupied her thoughts. So small a life that it was probably no bigger than the big carbuncle of the Queen’s ring. But it was her small life, her hope, their hope. If she let herself be carried away by her thoughts, she could almost feel the little thing move inside her even if she knew that said little thing only made its presence known by a few outward signs. Signs which she had learnt from the women of the village. She refused to worry about how Athos would react. Would he continue to love her? What if he rejected her, feeling betrayed?  No, Athos wasn't like that. 

     Sylvie smiled. She imagined him as a father, his awkwardness, probably, his pride, maybe, and the other three as the most boisterous uncles the earth had ever known.  Something worried her, though. Would she be able to live like Constance? Always fearing for her man, for her love. Waiting for him to die at swordpoint or on a battlefield? Would she be able to wait for hours, days, weeks or even years until a war ended, to see him again, whole or crippled? Her heart clenched. Now the tiny bud of love in her belly wasn't enough to keep her company. She felt anxious. She suddenly felt the crushing weight of Tréville’s death, a kind, generous man who had been so good to her when she had lost everything. She understood why so many people consider him as a father. She felt so alone without her father. Her father who would never know his grandchild. She gasped. No, she couldn’t cry, it wasn’t the moment. She couldn't, she didn’t want, but her body fought her determination. She was loath to waking Constance but she felt that she needed her rest too. Her eyelids were heavy. She looked at the rays of moon filtering through the opening between the heavy brocade of the curtains. Her eyes closed.  
**  
**  


**oooo0000O0000ooo**

 

**_Aramis_ **

 

_      And now? _ He asked himself as soon as he reached the  _ Jardins du Luxembourg _ . Now, he was alone, barely able to see where Naïade put her hooves. The night was silent and dark. The moon had disappeared behind a thick curtain of clouds and the round white mocking face only furtively appeared, from time to time, at the surface of one of the many puddles left by the storm. It was far from being enough to light the streets. 

    The storm had left in its wake a mixture of odours: wet earth, rain-battered honeysuckle and an acrid smell, like the rotting leaves in a forest but with something more … urban. The olfactive trace of a miserable population, born, living, working, dying in a same slum, in a same damp backyard, so far away from the splendour of the court. Aramis shook his head, refusing to mull over the misery of the French people compared to the selfish pomp of the court. 

Now that he was alone, he thought of his behaviour from earlier. He had always acted in a way Athos hated. He remembered what his friend had taught their youngest,  _ head over heart _ . He snorted. He felt no better than a twenty-year-old farmer’s son. What of his experience? What of his skills? Porthos had once said that if an enemy opened his skull, they wouldn’t find his brain in it, as it was always in another part of his body. Aramis hadn’t asked where as he was certain that he wouldn't like the answer. For now, he knew perfectly well where is brain had wandered as the beating in his rib cage, an unnerving erratic loud thud, answered him. Thinking with his heart had always led him into troubles, he knew it, but he didn’t know how to change… well, in fact, he didn’t want to change.

He stopped at a corner underneath the sign of an apothecary shop. The squeaky sound made him look up. Naïade shifted nervously and pulled on her bit. She couldn’t see anymore than her master and it made her anxious. Aramis dismounted as gently as possible trying not to frighten the tired horse. 

 

_ Where am I? God, I can’t be lost! _

 

He remembered galloping aimlessly for a moment, just letting the wind and exhilaration of the speed make him forget everything. When it hadn’t worked and when the darkness had made his ride dangerous, he had slowed down, trying to recognise his surroundings. He stared at the rusty sign where a clumsy artist had represented a big syringe -not a very welcoming sight- and a few indeterminate leaves and flowers, unidentifiable medicinal plants. 

 

“Now, my beauty, we have to trust our instincts.” He said, his voice echoing eerily between the blind high facades whose gables, like giants’ foreheads, almost touched above his head.

 

A bell rang somewhere. He counted, hoping that the sun would appear soon, but … One, two … 

 

“Oh, so it seems that the moon is still here for a while.” He whispered.

 

He turned to the left and slowly made his way along a narrow street. Two bats drew a few spirals above his head, their light whistle adding to the gloomy atmosphere. He followed for a few seconds their dizzying dance against the almost supernatural lead colour of the sky, then he tried to observe his surroundings. He could almost touch each side of the street if he stretched his arms. The bell rang again, closer this time.  _ Saint- Germain _ ? Maybe. The sound was that of a big bell but not  _ Notre-Dame _ so it gave him a little hope.     He continued, looking at each house, each sign. When he noticed a horseshoe painted white above a large dark door, he sighed with an immense relief. He knew the shop of the blacksmith who sometimes worked for the Musketeers. The Garrison wasn’t far now.   Patting Naïade’s neck, he whistled, partly because he felt better, partly because the silence of those back alleys made him feel anxious. Silence? Not really. His footsteps made an odd sound, they weren’t as hushed as they had been. As if …   He turned around, on alert. Was he imagining things? Maybe the fierce sun of this dreadful day -and the fact that he hadn’t slept or eaten in hours- had altered his faculties. He had seen soldiers hallucinating after being dehydrated. The sound stopped with him stopping so…

He was about to resume his walk when … No, he had surely dreamt awake… A shadow.  A hooded figure, there, hiding in the doorway of a shop he had just passed … No it couldn’t be … He gripped the reins tightly and urged his horse to walk quickly and again, his footsteps made this sound … as if … He turned around abruptly … 

 

_**To be continued...** _


	9. We will go after him.

**_D’Artagnan_ **

 

“He what?” The young man asked bewildered.

 

At last they had managed to be together again, to support each other, _inséparables_ , and now… D’Artagnan wished he could keep them close, but it was like keeping a handful of sand between clenched fingers. Why now? It wasn’t time to be separated, _united we stand_ _divided we fall,_ wasn’t it their motto… So what had Aramis done? He had ...

 

“Left.” Porthos answered, sparing his words, because he felt that his voice would betray him, betray his anger and his worry.

“But why?” D’Artagnan asked again looking up at his mentor. “He is …”

 

     Athos stood, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning a shoulder against the wall, an eyebrow raised in a silent question. His expression, both surprised and resigned, obviously said:  _ once more, Aramis has followed his instincts. _ Honestly, it didn’t seem to surprise him but maybe he had hoped that given the circumstances he wouldn’t be such...

 

“A fool.” Porthos grunted.

“So, why did our foolish friend decide to run away?” Athos asked, his calm and noble voice revealing nothing of his thoughts.

“I don’t care why he ran.” D’Artagnan replied. “He is alone, it’s dangerous with …”

“He left because he thinks that it should be your wife here with you, and not three worried old soldiers. He wants to bring her here.”

 

Athos shook his head with a sigh and left the wall. 

 

“I’ll go after him.”

 

D’Artagnan raised a hand to stop him and looking straight into his friend’s eyes, he said :

 

“ _ We _ will go after him.”

“You are not …”

“I am ready.” The young man interrupted, hauling himself onto his feet with as few grimaces as possible. 

“As ready as a freshly skinned rabbit” Porthos mumbled, watching with a raised eyebrow as the young Musketeer dangerously swayed on his feet.  

 

     Athos had left the wall, ready to catch his friend if necessary, but he still had his arms crossed, right hip canted in a -probably fake- casual attitude, a slightly amused expression gracing his features.

 

“A rat, you mean.” He drawled, earning an outraged glare from d’Artagnan which made him realise that the word was poorly chosen.

“How can you joke? Don’t you know that Grimaud is still hidden somewhere in the streets. Ready to kill again. Again.”D’Artagnan’s voice broke as he repeated ‘again’.

 

Athos exhaled a breath, as if he had been hit in the stomach. Porthos swallowed with a strangled sound. Reality crushed them with as much violence and brutality as if the roof had suddenly collapsed. The silence which followed d’Artagnan’s words was heavy and suffocating.      The young man looked at his friends, breathing heavily, realising that he had broken the spell, broken the bubble in which they had carefully retreated since they had found him, pushing aside the terrifying reality of Tréville’s death, of Grimaud’s threat, of an uncertain future. He stepped back slightly, using the bed frame to steady himself, his calves against the wood. He felt his vision blurr, the pain in his ribcage coming back with a renewed force and something which was worse than everything, a feeling of emptiness. The dark hole left inside him by Tréville’s death and Constance’s absence. Aramis’ disappearance worsened his anxiety and he needed to leave this room. It was more than a need, it was a necessity and it made him tremble on his legs. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his own breathing. He heard someone approaching him but he refused to open his eyes. A hand on his elbow. His throat constricted. He wasn’t going to cry. He couldn’t, not in front of them.

 

“Better embrace Athos than the floor, don’t you think? He is closer and more comfortable” 

 

First, D’Artagnan had thought that it was Porthos’ hand on his elbow, but his voice came from the other side of the small room. He felt the hand shake slightly and the characteristic almost silent laugh of Athos made its way through the thunder of his own ragged breathing.

 

“I think you need to rest.” Athos said, his voice low and hushed.

 

D’Artagnan shook his head like a child refusing to go to bed.

 

“D’Artagnan, please, sit down.” Athos said calmly but firmly, tightening his grip. “And breathe slowly or you will faint.”

“Faint!” Porthos mocked fondly.

 

D’Artagnan opened his eyes in a vain attempt to glare but he just bowed his head, feeling suddenly drained, and turned to Athos. The latter looked helplessly at Porthos who shrugged and repeated:

 

“I told you, better embrace Athos than the floor.”

 

D’Artagnan’s shoulders shook from his effort to contain both his grief and the sudden laugh which unexpectedly came to his throat and he closed the gap between him and his friend. Athos slung an arm around his shoulders and clumsily, and briefly, hugged him under Porthos’ fond gaze.   When they drew apart, d'Artagnan raised his head and his shining eyes met Athos’.

 

“Shall we go now?”

 

Athos shrugged but nodded. Porthos opened his mouth but didn’t say a word. There was nothing to do against the famous Gascon stubbornness, nothing to say, except maybe …

 

“At least, wear something before we leave.” Porthos said holding d’Artagnan’s shirt.

 

**oooo0000O0000ooo**

**_Aramis_ **

 

He knew it. All he deserved was an eternal place in Hell but he had imagined it different. Less cold, less wet… more crowded, more noisy, more … Wait … Were there bells in Hell? 

He shook his head and tried to open his heavy glued eyelids, actions which only made him lose consciousness once more. Before sinking in a sea of black molasses, he briefly thought that he hadn't counted … but he couldn’t remember what he had forgotten to count…

  
  


**oooo0000O0000ooo**

 

**_Sylvie_ **

 

      The hushed sound of bells somewhere in the city awoke her with a start. Constance was still asleep but she had rolled on her back -leaving Sylvie free of her movements- and snored gently, a soft sound similar to the child’s light breath which made a lock of blond hair tremble on his forehead. Sylvie stood up to peer through the heavy curtains. The night was still dark. What time could it be? She waited, hoping that the bells would ring again, but the only sounds of the night were those of the servants running to satisfy the whims of their masters, running to fetch a glass of water, a spoonful of honey or a bowl of fruits because a nobleman or a noblewoman could ask anything at any hour of the day or night. Sylvie had always been strong and her mind was usually clear and pragmatic, shaped by years of suffering and misery, but during this strange night she couldn’t help but feel anxious. Where were they? 

     She couldn’t help but be resentful of the Queen who thought that this heavily furnished room, with its comfortable chairs, roaring hearth and sumptuous fabrics shimmering under the soft light was a much better place to stay than her miserable rooms in Saint Antoine, but it wasn’t her home. Moreover, she suspected that the Queen’s intentions were a little more selfish. Her son had been so distressed and scared when his governess had approached him while he showed such a blind trust towards her and Constance. 

    She shook her head. The Queen’s reaction was normal as a mother and Sylvie, who had been deprived of this kind of love for years, understood it, but her tired mind fought against her and brought back the revolutionary ideas amongst which she had been raised.  _ Don’t be stupid _ , she admonished herself. Anyway, she felt like a prisoner.

     The little King mumbled something unintelligible and she murmured in his ear to calm him, a hand on his smooth forehead, then she looked around her. The flames of the candles were producing their last sparkles. She found a new candle on a chest of drawers. She couldn't help but admire the imposing piece of furniture, the black wood inlaid with ivory, the delicacy of the sculptures, the warm reflections of the tarnish bronze of the handles. She sighed, not really knowing why, and turned around to light the new candle with the dying flame of another one.

     Constance raised her head and her eyes half open, she looked at her, a question already on her lips. Sylvie shook her head and came to sit beside her.

 

“Did you sleep at all?” Constance murmured.

“A little.”

“You should try. I know you are worried but …”

“I’m fine.”

 

Constance sat up and patted the mattress next to her.

 

“I wonder who taught you these words.”

“What do you mean?” Sylvie asked, smoothing the folds of her embroidered apron over her still flat belly.

“You said ‘I’m fine’. I know someone else who is always fine, even when he has just been beaten by …”

“What do you want me to say?” Sylvie interrupted. “Of course I’m worried, but no more than you.”

 

She lay on the mattress, on her side, facing the door, hoping that someone would come to tell them to leave, to tell them anything that could reassure them. She closed her eyes and felt Constance lie down at her back, she felt her hand on her shoulder.

 

“I know. Try to rest.”

 

**oooo0000O0000ooo**

 

**_Athos_ **

 

      Porthos had managed, God knows how, to light the torch again. Its flame sent acrid whirls of smoke around them. They rode silently, abreast, scanning the streets. Athos felt his throat constricting when it reminded him of another day, a long time ago, when they had all proudly ridden like that, crossing a village, his village. They were five at the time. Five men who unconsciously thought that they were invincible as long as they were together. Now they would never be five again. Athos looked up at the dark sky, sending a prayer towards the clouds, hoping that somewhere… He shook his head. He had long lost any trace of faith, but felt that he owed it to the pious Aramis. He heard d’Artagnan cough and he instinctively brought his horse closer to the young man who rode on his left. The reddish glow of the torch and the black smoke gave this sinister walk through the streets of Paris something even more hellish.D’Artagnan coughed again and bent over the neck of his horse, gripping the mane. 

 

“D’Artagnan, do you need to stop?” He asked, his voice hushed, laying a hand on his friend’s neck.

.

     The young man shook his head, stubbornly. His forehead briefly shone under the orange light of the torch.  _ Sweat _ , Athos thought and he associated it with an intense pain and probably the return of the fever.

 

“And if he has chosen another street?” Porthos grumbled.

 

     Athos had nothing to answer. He was lost, exhausted to a level he had never experienced. He felt almost detached from his body, all his movement dictated by habit and instinct. His mind felt paradoxically clear and sharp, keeping an eye on his young friend’s reactions and scanning each corner of the streets, barely lit by their torch. The bells of a church rang four times. Athos thought of the stupidity of such a task. If somewhere Aramis’ God existed, He probably didn’t care if a few monks slept peacefully, resting from their day of labour instead of leaving the straw mattress they had barely managed to warm in order to run  towards a freezing church. D’Artagnan moaned, it was discreet, muffled, but Athos didn’t miss the sound.

 

“You should have stayed. You are in no condition…”

“It’s not about my condition.” D’Artagnan interrupted, clearly biting his cheek to silence his pain.

 

They stared at each other like two angry cats.

 

“Look over there.” Porthos suddenly murmured.

 

D’Artagnan and Athos looked in the direction showed by Porthos. 

 

“What was that?” D’Artagnan asked.

“A man, with a hooded cape.”

“Was it …”

“It can’t be ...” Athos whispered without trying to hide his anxiety. “Where is he now?” He asked, urging his horse towards the place where they had seen the dark shadow, sliding along the walls. “Wait here.” He added before entering a narrow street opening onto a small square place.

 

He had no illusion of being obeyed and soon his two friends came to his sides.

 

“Nothing.” He breathed out angrily.

“What was he looking for here?”

“You mean  _ who _ .” D’Artagnan whispered.

 

They resumed their slow walk but now, they felt the threat of the dark shadow. They weren’t sure it was who they believed it was, but the mere thought added weight on their shoulders, an anxiety, a fear for their friend and for themselves. They rode so close to each other that their legs brushed with each step of their mounts. The streets were eerily silent. They passed the shop of the blacksmith with its white horse shoe and continued in another narrow street. They were very close to the garrison now but no trace of their friend.

 

“If we don’t find him, we should go back to Constance’s former house by using another route.” Porthos said not expecting any answer.

“I agree,” Athos said, “but we leave d’Artagnan at the garrison first.”

“D’Artagnan is here with you, just in case you have forgotten, and he refuses to be left aside like an invalid.” D’Artagnan replied, his voice betraying his pain, but his tone full of authority.

 

Athos thought that he would make a much better captain than himself but said nothing and just nodded. He had long abandoned the idea of giving orders to this stubborn young mule.

 

**oooo0000O0000ooo**

  
  


**_Aramis_ **

 

He felt the ground vibrating under his head. His muddled mind deduced that he was laying on his back. At least, his mind was still working and his body still felt something. Do the damned souls feel something in Hell? Probably. If not, how could the sinners of his kind expiate their sins. Of course they had to suffer, but … how could he feel his body suffer like that, his soul should be the only remaining part of him in Hell. Opening his eyes was a task he was loath to execute but he needed to know. If he had to spend the rest of … Wait, no, his surroundings, his sensations felt too … earthly. His pains had nothing to do with a few demons’ forks. His pains came from the fact that in the past days and weeks he had been mistaken too many times for a quintain, and he was so cold, so soaked in freezing smelly water. The vibrations increased, he opened one eye, even if his head kept telling him that it was stupid and saw them, the big terrifying hooves a few inches from his head, then he saw the dirty boots … Unable to fight one more time, he curled on himself and protected his battered body with his arms .. .   

  
  


**oooo0000O0000ooo**

  
  
  


**_D’Artagnan_ **

 

He felt his stamina fade more quickly than he had expected. He had thought that once his rather superficial wound was closed and bandaged it would be over, but now it was as if his skin didn’t fit his body anymore. Too tight or too large, cracking or crumpling, he couldn’t tell, but something was awfully wrong. The sticky sensation of the honey was almost unbearable and the sweat dripping drop by drop into his eyes kept him from seeing clearly. One thing he didn’t have to see was Athos’ green eyes fixed on him. He didn’t have to see them because he felt them, boring into his skin. When the smoke suffocated him and he had to cough, he thought that finally, his body had decided to rid itself of his skin, but a warm gloved hand on his neck calmed him almost immediately.

He couldn't  think of himself, he had to focus on Aramis. He shook his head, squinted to clear his sight, and, slightly bent forward, gripping the pommel of his saddle, he scanned the streets. He just wished that Porthos could stop muttering under his breath. It made him nervous, but he understood, so he tried to ignore the constant stream of:

 

“Stupid, stupid arrogant fool, where are you? Selfish idiot…”

 

They soon turned into a narrow alley. The sky seemed less dark now, a faint glow of greyish light appearing above the lower buildings making them even more black and gloomy. Dawn, already? What time could it be? Three? Four?

D’Artagnan looked up at the sky. A few white feather-like clouds floated over the still bright moon but the stars now blinked like the eyes of a myriad sleepy owls, their light slowly fading, unable to fight against the sun which would soon rise and extinguish them. A new day. Suddenly, images of the past one came back to his mind, violently taking his breath away. He had almost forgotten. Only a few hours earlier, they had lost … The man who … D’Artagnan swallowed his saliva, closed his eyes and opened them again to concentrate on a small cloud whose shape reminded him of a shell. 

D’Artagnan was so enthralled by his observation of the sky, by his grief, that he had forgotten for a few seconds what their current mission was. Stupidly, it made him blush, ashamed, when he realised that despite the confidence he had tried to show, he was unable to stay concentrated on a simple task. Athos had stopped and d’Artagnan understood that he was waiting for him while Porthos continued his walk and his angry muttering, taking the torch with him.

 

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked, his voice a raspy whisper.

“Fine.”

“I don’t doubt it.”  Athos answered, unable to hide the fond sarcasm in his voice,  before silently urging his horse to walk again.

 

Porthos had already turned the corner of the small street and d’Artagnan was about to follow when his burning eyes fell on a dark opening in the wall of a seemingly abandoned house. Squinting again he saw a form huddled amongst the rubble. A human form, and … a hat. A hat with a ridiculous blue feather which gracefully danced in a pale ray of moon. The sound coming from his mouth sounded more like the whimper of a wounded dog than a human voice, but Athos immediately turned around, his features distorted -at least it was how d’Artagnan saw them- by worry and fear. Porthos had heard too and he violently pulled on his reins to join them, making his horse’s hooves noisily splash in the puddles of mud.

 

“What is it?” Athos asked.

 

But d’Artagnan didn’t answer, he was too busy trying to slide from his saddle with a minimum of dignity and efficiency.

 

“What-are-you-doing?” Athos enunciated his tone slightly annoyed. 

 

Porthos was next to d’Artagnan now, supporting him with his fingers firmly wrapped around his elbow. Athos made his horse come closer and he looked down at the part of the building which d’Artagnan stared at so intently.

 

“Oh God.” He murmured, literally jumping from the big friesian and rushing towards the dark figure shaking on the dirty ground.

 

_**To be continued...** _


	10. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> _"This is it."_ Porthos says...
> 
> I know that a few people will use Aramis' words: _"You will be back. I know you will."_
> 
> Maybe...
> 
> My heart says "yes", my reasonable mind says "no". Heart vs mind... the winner is ... ?
> 
>   **oooOOO0OOOooo**
> 
> Thank you for your support, your lovely comments.  
> Thank you for your help, my dear proofreader...
> 
> A bientôt ... peut-être...  
> Joyeux Noël et Bonne année  
>  _ **Emma**_  
>  ♥♥♥

**_Porthos_ **

 

      He was torn between contradictory feelings. He wanted to rush towards Aramis, to bring him safely to the garrison, to comfort him and heal him but at the same time, he still felt the shudders of a residual anger running through his whole body. Why did Aramis have to impose this? D’Artagnan needed them, he had been wounded, physically and emotionally. It wasn’t about Aramis and his fears, Aramis and his moral sense, Aramis and his stubbornness. Their night should have been dedicated to their youngest brother.He watched as Athos carefully knelt before their trembling friend who whimpered and recoiled under their Captain’s soft touch. He watched as Aramis’ eyelids fluttered, opened slightly, closed again and opened again, wider, showing the man’s recognition and relief. Athos slid his right hand behind Aramis’ head and grasped his shoulder with the other one to help him sit up.

 

“A … Athos?”

“Himself.” Athos answered with a forced smile. “What happened?” He asked then, more sternly, as Aramis let his head fall onto his friend’s chest.

 

      Porthos felt d’Artagnan tremble under his palm.

 

“You want to sit down?” He asked, worried.

 

      D’Artagnan didn’t answer but his whole body was taut like a bow  towards Aramis and Athos. Porthos understood and led him to sit next to the others. The young man immediately knelt and laid his hand on Aramis’ back. Porthos stuck the torch in a hole between two stones and joined them, crouching next to them but not too close. He cursed his childish resentment but he felt numb and useless and still so angry.

 

      Aramis was braced by Athos and  breathed heavily, as if he had ran for hours.

 

“What happened?” Athos reiterated.

 

      Suddenly, Aramis raised his head, gripped Athos’ jacket and looked around them with frantic movements.

 

“Naïade, where is Naïade?” He shouted.

 

      Pushing Athos he tried to straighten but his abrupt movement made d’Artagnan sway and fall onto his side. The young man cried in pain and Aramis froze. They all froze.

 

“‘M fine.” D'Artagnan mumbled at last but his forehead shimmered under the light of the torch.

 

      Aramis turned his head in a slow motion, like an inebriated man and suddenly swayed on his knees as he saw the young man, lying on his side, his jaw clenched and his fingers digging into the dirt. Porthos rushed to help d’Artagnan who pushed him gently, nodding his thanks and straightening again.

 

“M’ fine.”

 

      Porthos threw a dark look at Aramis but the latter seemed hypnotised by what he had done.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so … oh.” He whimpered, taking his head in his hands and bending forward until his hair brushed the ground.

 

      He seemed so hurt and exhausted that Porthos couldn’t resist, he knelt and put a hand on his arm, squeezing slightly, his fingers questioning more efficiently than his voice which he didn’t trust.

 

“Where are you hurt Aramis?” Athos asked.

 

      Aramis didn’t answer and Porthos, this time, knelt, slung an arm around his shoulders and guided him to lean on him.

 

“Aramis, talk to us.” D’Artagnan prompted, his voice unsteady.

 

      Aramis shook his head and it seemed to make him dizzy because he leant more heavily against Porthos who sighed and curled his other arm around his insufferable friend.

 

“Maybe we could finish this discussion somewhere else. We all need to rest.” He said.

“And don’t worry about Naïade, I’m sure that she  is already in her box, waiting for you to give her her evening apple.” D’Artagnan tried to reassure him.

 

      A silence followed only disturbed by the soft cries of the small bats hunting in the night.

 

“He was here.” Aramis suddenly murmured. “I’m sure, it was him.”

“Who?” Athos asked, already knowing the answer.

“You know who.” Porthos grumbled.

“Aramis, how do you explain that he … he didn’t kill you?”Athos asked cautiously.

“I… I don’t know… I think… Naïade scared him. She can be … protective.”

“But why  _ you _ ? Why following  _ you _ ?”

“Wanted to finish what he had started…” Aramis muttered bitterly.

“But …” Athos began before remembering Aramis hanging to a chain in a ruin.

“Moreover, I think… I think it's you he wants to hurt by hurting or trying to kill us.” D’Artagnan explained softly.

“Why …” Athos asked before breathing out a hushed “Oh!” as his brain understood.

 

      D’Artagnan cocked his head and smiled fondly. 

 

“He knows how to destroy us. A horse with a broken leg is bound to die.”

 

      Athos nodded then turned again towards Aramis who seemed to doze, his head lolling awkwardly because Porthos held him at arm's length now.

 

“What happened exactly?” 

 

Porthos mentally cursed Athos for being Captain Athos at an hour when they all should be in a bed.

 

“He … he pushed me against the wall and tried to take the reins but she pulled on them so violently that he stumbled. I unsheathed my sword but Naïade was between us and I couldn’t … I couldn’t hit him without hurting her… There was … a … for a moment I couldn’t see anything… My sword fell, I was pushed once more against the wall, I fell, he hit me with… I think…. With his feet or… I don’t know… I heard Naïade neigh and…. I don’t remember… my head… Oh, God, it hurts!” 

 

Porthos carefully hauled him onto his feet.

 

“You’ll ride with me.”

“But …”

“But what? Do you have a horse? No. Can you walk? No. Don’t be so stubborn!”

“But…”

“Be quiet. It’s all your fault, so … just … be quiet.” Porthos replied his voice seething angrily, balling his fist as if ready to hit him.

 

Athos arched an eyebrow and d’Artagnan smiled in spite of his pain..

 

“What?” Porthos asked them briskly before retrieving the torch.

 

Helping d’Artagnan onto his horse was more difficult than when they had left Constance’s house. There, they had used the stones of the well to prop him up onto his big friesian but now there was nothing except a few crumbled walls, moreover, the young man was in a more intense pain. They left Aramis sitting on the muddy ground, a position which he reluctantly accepted after receiving an irate look from Porthos. When d’Artagnan was more or less securely settled in his saddle, his fingers clenched around the reins, they turned towards their other wounded friend ...  to find him in a foetal position, his arms protectively curled around his abused ribs.

 

“Is he …” D’Artagnan began.

“Deeply asleep, yes.” Athos smiled fondly.

“I’m tempted to leave him here…”

“Porthos.” Athos chided in his deep soft voice, an eyebrow raised in a fake anger.

 

**ooooOOO0OOOoooo**

 

**_Aramis_ **

 

      Breathing had become more and more difficult and each step of the big friesian sent a stabbing pain in his ribcage.  _ Maybe not broken, but surely cracked in several places _ , he thought fuzzily. He sniffled instinctively, because of the cold of the near dawn or because of the rain of the night, he couldn’t tell, but he hadn’t expected a simple and normal bodily reaction to be so painful. It was as if his whole ribcage was drawn, sucked, by his lungs. He gingerly raised a hand to wipe his running nose with his sleeve. At least his skull seemed mostly intact - apart from the goose egg he felt growing above his nape- but he could hear his blood pounding in his right ear where said ear had met a heavy boot. He felt nauseous enough to suspect a light concussion. He tried to touch his scalp to finish his self examination. 

 

“Stop moving.” Someone said at his back, emphasising the words by tightening the arm already carefully slung around his waist.

 

      Aramis frowned, he had forgotten that he was on Athos’ horse. He was there not because of Porthos’ obvious anger but because d’Artagnan had pointed out that Athos was lighter than Porthos and his horse sturdier than Porthos’.   Porthos … Aramis could see his stiff back in front of them. He could have thought, could have tried to find words, but he was too exhausted and battered. The explanation would come, later, maybe in several days, he could trust Porthos to bring the subject back as soon as possible.

 

“Give him time.” Athos murmured as if reading his mind.

 

He felt his sword dangling from his belt but he couldn’t remember how it had come back there.  The pain in his head was pulsing with the beating of his heart. He leant backwards and felt Athos’ breath on his neck.

 

“Almost there.” The captain murmured. “If we ride too fast, he will fall.” He added with a nod towards d’Artagnan.

“He is here and he can hear you.” D’Artagnan mumbled trying to sound sarcastic and … failing. “And he is a better horseman than you think.”

 

**ooooOOO0OOOoooo**

 

**_D’Artagnan_ **

  
_ He is here … _

      He wasn’t sure of that. It was as if he was riding beside himself. Like in a dream. He felt nothing. No feeling, no sensation, no pain. Just a dreadful emptiness. Somehow, it was a relief but he knew that it wasn’t normal. What reassured him -well, it wasn’t reassuring at all- was that the others seemed to be in the same state. He looked at Athos and Aramis and wondered who supported who. Aramis was leaning on Athos’ chest, his head lolling on his shoulder while Athos seemed ready to slump against Aramis’ back. Porthos seemed the most awake and aware of them all, but he knew that worry and anger were the only pillars making him stay upright.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

      Athos’ voice surprised him in the middle of his quiet observation, maybe he had caught his dazed stare.

 

“Fine.” He answered half-heartedly.

“Liar.” Aramis mumbled under his breath.

 

      Athos’ chest visibly shook with an aborted laugh, then the silence of the night settled again only troubled by the sound of the horseshoes against the cobbles.

 

“The Garrison.” Porthos suddenly announced without turning around.

 

      And indeed, the faint orange glow of the torches signaling the courtyard appeared between the walls of the narrow street where they slowly rode. D’Artagnan felt as if he was awakening from a long nightmare. Everything around him regained its outlines, the eye-like windows of a low house, the red painted door of another, a broken bucket abandoned in a puddle… It was as if the dome of glass which had trapped him since they had left Constance’s house started to crack, as if he was slowly coming back into his own body and with all these new sensations, pains and grief assaulted him with a renewed vigor. He could have cried again, for everything, for nothing, for himself, for everyone. He could have cried for Tréville but he could also have cried for Louison whom he had left at the palace without saying goodbye ;  he could have cried for the dark future of the  _ Inséparables’  _ friendship but he could have cried for Aramis’ hat which was caked in mud; he could have cried because of the cold seeping through his wet clothes but he could have cried because of the love he felt in the warmth of Athos’ fingers on his arm. He was all contradictions and overwhelming emotions. When had his friend put his hand on his sleeve? He couldn’t remember. He frowned and tried to figure out how Athos could lead his horse, hold his arm and keep Aramis from falling... with only two arms. Of course, their horses didn’t need to be guided, they knew the way to their stables. He huffed a small laugh which worsened his pain.

 

“What the …” Porthos began.

 

D’Artagnan raised his head at the exclamation just in time to see Aramis slide from Athos’ horse in spite of the man’s grip on his waist. He frowned and watched, unable to move, as Aramis ran, or rather stumbled, towards the scene which had made Porthos swear. The latter jumped from his horse and hooked his arm in Aramis’ elbow  to prevent him from falling once more in the mud.

 

“Naïade!” Aramis shouted. “Don’t treat her like that.”

 

D’Artagnan squinted to look at the scene and started to remove a foot from the stirrup,  but it made him dizzy and he saw the walls move around him before a warm hand grabbed him again. 

 

“Don’t you dare dismount!” The deep voice chidded.

“I …”

“You were falling from your horse, you idiot.” Athos replied. “Let them handle this.”

“He is woun …”

“As you are. So now, either you stay where you are or I’ll carry you to your home like the stubborn child you persist in being.”

 

      D’Artagnan almost heard the cogs of his own mind turn and squeak as he tried to understand Athos’ sudden anger towards him. 

 

“I can … ride.”

“Fine.”

 

      Athos seized his reins, D’Artagnan gripped the mane and let Athos lead his horse, their beasts so close that their own thighs brushed with each step, a comforting warmth for the young man’s muddled mind. They approached the Garrison’s gates where a frantic Naïade tried to escape the hold of two young cadets. Aramis, supported by Porthos, limped towards his mare, murmuring in Spanish and cursing the two nervous boys who had scared the beautiful black beast… and who were obviously scared by her.  Hearing her master, Naïade stopped her fight and came to nuzzle Aramis’ neck. The relief everyone felt was palpable. The incident would hopefully be the last of this dreadful day. D’Artagnan felt a sudden need to sleep and he swayed in his saddle.  

 

“A few more feet and we will be in the courtyard.” Athos told him while gripping his arm tightly, the two horses still walking against each other in a way which could have been dangerous in any other circumstance and if they had had to galop or even trot...

 

      D’Artagnan leant against his Captain’s shoulder and closed his eyes on the sight of a barely able to walk Aramis leading his horse towards the courtyard with the support of Porthos who wore a fond smile, all anger and resentment forgotten in the reassuring walls of their home. He didn’t even notice when his own horse stopped.

 

“It’s a new day.” Athos murmured with a mixture of relief and anxiety, his warm breath brushing d’Artagnan’s cheek. “ Dawn…” He added then with, this time, a smile in his voice, “I advise you to open your eyes.”

 

Athos let his fingers slide towards d’Artagnan’s hand and squeezed it gently.

 

“Time to wake up, the sun is rising.”

“Mnnhh.”

 

      The voice which came next made him obey immediately.

 

“Charles, what did you do to yourself?”

“Constance …” He mumbled, his tongue feeling coated with mud and sand. “I’m …”

“Sorry, maybe ? I hope you are.” She replied, her hands on her hips.

 

      D’Artagnan felt Athos let go of his hand and he missed the reassuring contact. He watched him dismount with a tired smile, tether his horse to a wooden pillar then come back to d’Artagnan’s friesian. Constance still faced him, her brimming eyes hesitating between relief and anger, her feelings fighting each other in her darkened irises. She looked exhausted, pale, sad… but relieved and she hid all these feelings behind a mask of resentment.  D’Artagnan stared at her with expectation but she had stopped talking and moving, frozen. Again, the young man felt Athos’ warm hand, this time on his thigh.

 

“I can’t do this alone, d’Artagnan.” He whispered.

 

      D’Artagnan nodded and tried to bend over the neck of the horse to dismount but Athos stopped him.

 

“I think you will have to do it in a less manly way. Try to bring your leg over the neck, it will be easier and perhaps less painful for your back.”

 

D’Artagnan nodded again and began to move, his eyes still fixed on Constance.

 

“Easy, easy, don’t hurt your back with the saddle. I’ll catch you.”

 

      This time d’Artagnan looked at Athos as the man’s hands tightened on his arms.

 

“I hate this.” The young man mumbled as he slipped from the saddle, grimacing when his feet hit the ground.

“What do you hate ?”

 

      They were so close that d’Artagnan could only see the green eyes staring at him with so much worry.

 

“Being so weak.”

“We are all weak.”

“You aren’t, you never are.” D’Artagnan replied earnestly.

“I am, more than you think… and it’s what makes us human. You just have to accept it. It took me too many years to admit it. Don’t follow my example.” Athos whispered - with more words than his friend had heard him use in days- his fingers instinctively squeezing his friends arms as if desperately attempting to emphasise his words. 

 

      D’Artagnan tried to convey in a single look how much he admired the man and he tried to read the pale eyes. He felt the world fade around them, the sounds were muffled, the images were blurred. D’Artagnan couldn’t move, only connected to the reality by the fingers around his biceps and the eyes which apparently couldn’t leave his. 

 

“I’m sorry for …” He tried, but his lips wouldn’t form the proper words.

 

Athos slowly shook his head.

 

“No, don’t …”

“Are you …” D’Artagnan began ...

“I’m fine.”

 

It was a lie and d’Artagnan tried to read Athos’ thoughts again, but his eyes were an abyss. A bottomless abyss underneath a whirl of troubled waters, a whirl of unreadable emotions. Never during his friend’s worst drunken nights had he seen such an emptiness in his expression. He wanted to say something, do something, erase the past and apologise but instead he just raised a hand to grip Athos’ wrist and... it broke the spell. The Captain just briefly bent his head, touched his forehead with his, just two seconds, and he averted his gaze, closing his mind once more.

      Constance stepped towards them followed by Sylvie who hadn’t dared approach, still not really sure of her belonging to the garrison. She silently took Athos’ hand and, with a last look at his friends, he let her lead him towards his office. Constance took d’Artagnan’s arm and they slowly walked towards their lodgings, tacitly avoiding each other’s eyes.

D’Artagnan closed his eyelids, trusting his wife as she led him, but not trusting his eyes as they stung with a suffocating grief, but worse were the images which assaulted his mind. Vivid memories of battlefields, of severed limbs and bloody uniforms, of smoke and fire, of hastily buried corpses -friends-, of mud and endless days of rain. Memories of death and loss. As he opened his eyes, he knew what he could have seen in the dark abyss of Athos’ irises… if the man had allowed him to see. He would have seen those images, this well hidden weakness born from loss and death.

He thought of Aramis’ lessons about the four bodily humors which could influence the ways the mind worked, maybe it was that, an excess of black bile -if he remembered well- due to the ordeals of one of the worst days in his life, in their life. He briefly thought that soon, the sun would shine again as if nothing had happened and maybe, maybe, they would be fine, all of them… safe … one day, when the man who had sworn to destroy them would … Maybe, one day, one new day, one new dawn …      

 

**ooo000O000ooo**

  
  


“Well, who is the winner?” Porthos asked gently to the now empty courtyard and a barely awake Aramis, his voice unsteady, almost choking on the words.

“The winner?” The latter asked, leaning heavily against his sturdy friend.

“The winner of this stupid game you all played since ...” He stopped, unwilling to say the words, naively hoping that maybe if he didn’t, their former captain would still be alive.

“What are you talking ab … “ Aramis began, quickly interrupted by a big yawn.

“A game I don’t want to play again, your stupid game of hide and …” He made a pause, trying to find the right word. “Hide and think. Now, whatever happens, we are together. If we must despair, we do it together, if we must face death for whatever reason it comes, we do it together. Understood? ”

 

He turned towards Aramis -who swayed slightly but tried to keep a semblance of dignity - and gripped his shoulders.

 

“Never, do you hear me, never do this again!”

“It’s hide and seek. Hide and think doesn’t exist.”

“I said: never !” Porthos replied.

“But …”

“The boy hid, you hid, everyone hid… and I was the one seeking, the whole night.” 

“And thinking…” Aramis smiled sadly bowing his head.

“Yes, thinking … I thought it was finished, we were finished, but we are not, whatever happens, we are not”, he added forcefully,  trying to catch Aramis’ eyes, but his friend seemed to be unable to hold his head properly. “Aramis? Are you really sleeping on your feet?”

 

He gently shook the slumped shoulders and smiled.

 

“Alright, let’s put you into bed, my friend.”

“Mnngg …alone.”

“You know what, as I don’t understand what you are trying to say, I will interpret it as ‘I don’t want to be alone’...”

 

      Aramis tried to argue but Porthos interrupted him.

 

“Don’t! I don’t want to be alone either and you don’t stay alone with a concussion. End of the game. I am the winner.”

“You … al’ays cheat…”

 

      Then, slowly, they made their way towards Aramis’ small room. 

      A cheerful sunny dawn had started to dilute the ink of the night with its bright watercolours. Shy sunrays drew the contours of the buildings with touches of gold. It was a new day, and even if it was a new day of grief and mourning, they would have to live, to fight and to seek revenge. 

      Together.

 

**_The End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the bitter sweet ending...


End file.
